


the measure of love

by golondrinas



Series: classic love stories [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Titanic!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-03-05 15:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golondrinas/pseuds/golondrinas
Summary: roger is first-class; brian is third-class. they've set sail on the ship of dreams, and you know the rest.* * *gratuitous maylor titanic!au





	1. i. roger's home; ojai, california; spring 1996

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "the measure of love is to love without measure."
> 
> this is the frame chapter, like the introduction during the first half hour of the movie. next chapter will get to the actual story on the titanic.

_“Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?”_

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Higher Pantheism”

 

It’s been my experience that the burdens of wealth, though few, weigh heavily on the spirit. Ours is a mantle of both heritage and history: a mandate to guide order and culture under our careful watch. We are ever civil, collected, gracious to the world we serve; after all, most can only accomplish so far.

As honorable and momentous this blessing is, however, we must never forget the sacrifices entailed. We must always deny ourselves the luxuries of indulgence and self-interest, continuously holding our duty in the forefront of the mind. Wealth makes an example out of us, and whether our statue is erected or our mural defaced is a hypothetical of utmost importance—

At this point I would cease any attempts at interest in my father’s lecture, mind wandering to more interesting philosophies like cutlery or stationary. Though decades have passed, however, traces of my upbringing linger, even more stubborn than me. I let them stay in grudging respect—I won’t admit to being impressed—and so as the treasure-hunter across the table leans forward with something insatiable in his eyes, it is unfortunately necessary that I bear the nuisance.

“Listen, Mr. Taylor, I’m sure you know about my expedition,” Lovett starts, and while I do, I know men like him better. He’s past the last waves of youth but drowning in his own glory, apparent in his unsubtle gold jewelry from previous successes. Underneath the deep tan from the sun and international stardom, however, he is still the bold, raw adventurer, able to talk himself out of any shipwreck—and he’s far more serious than he would ever allow me to believe. The longer he speaks, the more I understand the deep waters he has found himself in.

“Mr. Lovett,” I interrupt his sales pitch.

“Please, just Brock.”

“Mr. Lovett, what makes your search so important that you’re visiting an old man? Surely, with all your careful planning—three years, you said?—and your robots and your experts, you wouldn’t need my help.”

He smirks, and my pet to his ego works exactly as intended. “What I’m looking for are the stories about Titanic no one’s ever heard before, the secrets hidden deep beneath the surface. I was hoping you’d know something that could help me out.”

“I would refer you to a library, but I’m guessing education isn’t your priority. You’re treasure-hunting. So what are you actually looking for?”

He laughs, a short bark of a noise, and hands me a photograph. It’s faded and worn around the edges, but the subject matter is unmistakeable. I can’t help the twinge of emotion, but no ripples reach my expression.

Lovett is absorbed in assessing my reaction, no doubt displeased to find little, but he pushes on just the same.

“The Heart of the Ocean.” His words are dipped in lust and pride. “It’s been missing for nearly a century, worth millions, and the last place it was seen is currently at the bottom of the ocean. Unfortunately, that means everybody who knows about the diamond is either dead or on my team. But now there’s you.”

He elaborates on the lengthy process it took him to end up at my doorstep, and I’m only vaguely paying attention, because if he hasn’t found it yet, the renowned, illustrious Brock Lovett is plainly desperate.

I wait for a pause in his monologue, then, “How many dives have you made so far?”

He blinks, but recovers smoothly. “Six.”

“You’re under pressure, then, I suppose. Partners who want to know what’s taking so long? We’ve all been there.”

He starts a retort, but I cut him off. “While I brought the necklace with me when I boarded, I wasn’t the owner by the time the ship sank. And like you said before, other passengers can’t be of any use. Unless, of course, your team of experts includes a medium.”

“Well, then who’d you give it to?” He’s a bit flushed and leans in farther, clearly unprepared to switch footings in this little dance of ours. I can hear the tightness around his eyes in his voice.

“An associate, whom I’ve never heard from since that night. I’m afraid I’ve got no contact information for you—in fact, you’ve visited him more times than I have. I’m sorry, Mr. Lovett. I wish I could help you.”

“And you’re sure there’s no way that this ‘associate’ of yours could’ve given it to someone else? Who is he? Why did you decide to give it to him? Did you ever see it again?” He’s relentless.

“I believe it was a wedding gift, for a celebration that never occurred. And yes, I’ve got a submarine out back for when my grandchildren visit. They love history, you know.”

The treasure-hunter huffs and stands, snatching up his tape recorder, but I’m sure this won’t be the last I see of him.

“It’s been nice speaking with you, Mr. Taylor. I hope we’ll keep in contact. I really do think you could help us show the world a little more of the magic of _Titanic_.” He shakes my hand curtly, despite the smile plastered on his face.

“Well, don’t hold out on lucky number seven.”

I close the door behind him and pause. Absently, I end up on the balcony overlooking the ocean, caught in a blank stare at the bright sun over the water until black dots appear in my vision. I light a cigarette out of indulgence, the plumes of smoke mixing with the colder breeze that ushers out the last dregs of winter. And while I’m not one to reminisce, the quiet of the house and the lull of the waves pull me into the horizon with the sinking sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come scream with me into the void about maylor in edwardian fashion on tumblr @borhap


	2. ii. port of southampton; southampton, england; april 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> transitioning from 1996 to roger's memories of titanic. also i should probably note that the timeline for the voyage is (loosely) a month in this fic. for the slow burn, ya know

_“Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:_

_This beaten way thou beatest I fear is hell’s own track.”_

_“Nay, too steep for hill-mounting; nay, too late for cost-counting:_

_This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.”_

Christina Rossi, “Amor Mundi”

 

He really shouldn’t be this irritated over paintings. Roger knows, objectively, the boarding has gone smoothly: no missing luggage, no tardy personnel, no disturbance from vapid, new-monied passengers. He can’t think of any complaints about the room, either. No luxury was spared in the parlor suite—it even smells brand new—but by the time the Picasso and Degas are unloaded and his opinion asked once again about the artistic truth of abstract faces and pastel ballerinas, Roger almost rips the goddamn canvas in half.

It’s stifling in the suit, the suite, the reputation his father has paid an ungodly amount of money for—money they don’t have, and if he is forced to act out this charade a minute longer, he might just ruin it all. He offers a terse excuse to the servants, and sequesters himself out on the promenade with the goal of smoking enough to obscure any evidence of where he is.

The anger drains out of him with each breath, leaving behind dry apathy. As suddenly as he was overwhelmed, he deflates, the cord snaps, himself turned inside out. He kicks at a potted plant absently, listening to the waves and mulling over the muffled conversation inside. The size of the suite and the entourage is excessive for someone traveling alone—he’ll only need Lovejoy, and certainly not three separate cabins—but they really aren’t for him. They’re for legacy, for press, for a woman across five thousand kilometers of ocean. He exhales sharply. At least she’ll be the one they can bother about interior decoration.

Inevitably, all Roger’s thoughts end up here somehow, the flame he really shouldn’t entertain, but does anyways, and then enjoys complaining about. Despite never having met her personally, he is well acquainted with the idea of her, the importance and implications and salvation and well-timed façade for his father’s abysmal wealth management skills. Which, case in point, lies nestled in a safe, one room over: the Heart of the Ocean. It is the one thing on the ship that impresses him, if only because it is so extravagant that he has to admire the confidence of his father to not only buy the wretched thing but to assume Roger’s fiancée will be impressed. Yet Taylors can sell anything, and with velvet box in hand, Roger is selling himself.

He feels trapped, emotions churning inside of him with nowhere to go. A month on _Titanic_ is all he has, and looking any further into the future leaves him paralyzed. Today is as far as he dares, and Roger intends to spend it well. He’s had twenty years of practice evading Lovejoy, and God knows the ship is big enough to hide anything—even the future that looms over him.

Roger can no longer hear anything from inside the cabin, so he leaves the promenade, regretting the smell of tobacco that clings to him. He'll have to fix that before dinner. But for now, he's safe from further annoyance, left to brood over the great disappointments of his existence, or as the servants say, to rest. He knows he should be making appearances by now, doing the rounds of handshakes and hand-kissses and considering the sunset over the rim of his glass. But in his infinite patience, Roger is inclined to indulge his petulance and toss social conventions over the deck. He mopes about the cabin and procrastinates dinner for God-knows-how-long, because he can’t be bothered to check. He sprawls out in an arm chair, nursing a whiskey, and sweeps his gaze over the somber mahogany, deathly porcelain, riotous floral upholstery. Together with the alcohol—acting rather quickly, seeing as he couldn’t muster up an appetite earlier—they blur together, a static, meaningless background until the grandfather clock behind his shoulder booms, passing judgment of the time. He bolts out of the cabin, and the white hot fear is loud enough to drown even the celebration above him.

* * *

The only aspect of _Titanic_ that doesn't live up to the ship’s grandeur are the bunk beds, according to Brian. Lying down on the surprisingly plush mattress, his feet stick out past the frame, dangling in the air—but if this is his biggest inconvenience onboard, it will be the best month of his life.

Brian’s cabin-mates bustle around him, throwing back and forth conversation he doesn't understand but laughter he does, all of them still absorbed in disbelief at their good luck. Here in room G-60 on the world’s unsinkable ship, anything seems possible.

Someone raps on the bottom of his bunk, startling him back to the real world.

“We’re going up to watch the ship leave port,” Deacon, who Brian remembers as the other English bloke in the cabin, says. “You coming?”

“Yeah, I’ll be just a minute.” Brian carefully arranges the only suitcase he brought before leaving with the others, pulled along in the swirling crowds up the stairs and towards the deck.

Out in the open air, smashed in between loud and excited strangers, the joy is irresistible. Hanging over the rail, his arm sore from waving, Brian finds it in himself to smile and laugh with them, wishing Southampton well and watching the mass of dots below slowly recede. He’s never sailed on a passenger ship before, much less one as luxurious as _Titanic_ , and the sight is stunning, enough to quell even his worst anxieties. He feels far above and away, temporarily pulled out from under his black cloud. He’s without the phantom scrapes of the comb from the humiliating disease inspection, the unending stress to make ends meet, the tiny flat where something is always broken, the longing for his parents, the worry for unending debt, the late hours, the too-small portions. And most of all, he momentarily forgets the disappointment of accepting a decision he’d never hoped to make—leaving everything he’s ever known to find better work so that, years in the future, maybe, just maybe, they can start over.

The wind picks up, someone laughs and grabs his hat for him, and the ship’s horn is loud and obnoxious and blaring the hope that everyone is feeling. Brian wishes he had a photograph to capture the scene forever.

Until a pair of sharply dressed yet disheveled crew members walk past them, dragged forward by several leashes attached to pets elated to escape the kennels.

Deacon huffs, lifting his cigarette to his mouth for another drag.“That’s typical. First class dogs come down here to take a shite.”

Brian can do nothing but shake his head, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “Lets us know where we rank in the scheme of things.”

“Like we could forget?” Deacon says, exhaling smoke.

The conversation tapers off, and Brian turns away from the railing to sit on a nearby bench and take in the warmth of the sunlight, watching all kinds of passengers enjoy the open air and the zeitgeist of the voyage.

His eyes are drawn to the deck above him when a young man in a tuxedo emerges from inside the ship, lighting a cigarette and gazing out towards the open ocean. He’s obviously upper-class, probably around Brian’s age, and Brian can’t help but stare for a few moments. His blond hair is far too long to be considered appropriately fashionable, the longest strands nearly brushing his shoulders and streaked golden from sun rays. Brian is too far away to make out the details of his face, but the lithe, graceful profile he cuts against the evening light is striking. He lacks the stiff, controlled posture of his social class: there’s a muted, almost tousled look to him that softens the sharp lines of proper English aristocracy.

The man brushes a stray lock of hair from his face and turns his head towards Brian, as if he senses he’s being watched. Brian immediately drops his gaze onto the first thing in front of him, a father balancing his toddler just above the railing to let her see the ocean below. He can feel Deacon’s eyes on him and ignores it, staring straight ahead and training his attention on their deck. Thankfully, Deacon makes no comment, leaving a few minutes later. Brian admittedly sneaks a few more surreptitious glances upwards, confused and ashamed of himself—but no less interested.

Eventually, the activity on the deck redirects into the ship for dinner, including the stranger, ushered inside by an older gentleman also in a suit. Brian follows the crowds, very deliberately suppressing the small part of his mind that hopes he’ll see the man again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come scream with me into the void about maylor in edwardian fashion on tumblr @borhap


	3. iii. cabin G-60; atlantic ocean; april 1912

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time, no see. hopefully this chapter is worth the wait.
> 
> i should note two things: one, that this fic has undergone some changes, especially in the second chapter. if you've already read this fic before, i suggest a reread of chapter two to clear some things up. second, this chapter is where the plot begins to significantly shift from the movie. the general themes/conflicts of titanic will be kept the same, but certain scenes and characteristics, including the suicide attempt, have been omitted. if you have any questions or need something further explained, don't hesitate to comment here or ask me on tumblr @borhap.

_We met. But all_

_We did that day was mingle great and small_

_Footprints in summer dust as if we drew_

_The figure of our being less than two_

_But more than one as yet._

Robert Frost, “Meeting and Passing”

 

The door swings open and against the wall with a loud bang, shattering the quiet inside the room. Brian’s cabin-mates stumble in, enveloped in loud laughter and excited voices, completely oblivious to his previous efforts to peruse one of the books he brought. Brain closes it with a sigh, resigned to his fate, and attempts to look busy rearranging the book in his suitcase so as not to be drawn into the conversation.

No such luck for him, though—it’s good few minutes before he stops being the butt of every joke. He’s annoyed, but knows better than to respond and find himself neck-deep in trouble, so he settles for rolling his eyes and turning away, leaving his cabin-mates to their own humor and preparations for dinner. He waits for the crowd to squeeze out of the room and fan out into the hallway, voices echoing loudly between the walls, then slides down off the bunk to the floor, but Deacon interrupts him before he reaches the door handle. 

“Er,” he starts, as if not completely confident of where he’s going with the conversation. “You’re sure you’re busy again tonight, after dinner?”

Brian pauses for a moment. He’d rejected all previous offers to post-meal socials after the ship’s departure two nights ago, when half a pint was spilled over him and leaving him with one fewer set of clean clothes out of his already sparse supply. But his alternative option is to run out of reading material too early into the voyage and be forced to attend the parties anyways out of sheer boredom. And he doesn’t mind Deacon. He seems friendly enough, a true family man: parting from his dear wife and children for much the same reason Brian left home. He might be a bit quiet, but Brian prefers that over the ruckus of strangers.

“You’re going, then?”

Deacon nods, and Brian mirrors him, pretending to consider it.

“I’ve still got a few things to take care of,” because he’s not really hungry, “but where would I go, afterwards?”

Deacon gives him directions to a space on deck B, aft, and to arrive sometime near ten, before leaving to join the others. The cabin seems much smaller now to Brian, almost stifling. It’s not long before he too is out, deciding on a walk around the ship to stretch his legs and think over what he’d been reading just before. John’s directions are simple enough, and with ample time on his hands, he wanders up the floors and enjoys the luxury of leisure.

He still hasn’t grasped the idea of having nothing to do, nowhere to be, no one to satisfy. The enormous blocks of time nearly swallow him whole, the sensation foreign and illicit. Brian hurries everywhere, out of habit, and in the moments where he catches his mind wandering, he’s startled by the remembered fear of missing someone, something, and the sense of dread from lost pay and cruel failure. He whips his head back over his shoulder as the anxiety churns like a wave, cresting suddenly and overwhelmingly, stealing a heartbeat before subsiding into exhaustion. Brian turns back and steadies himself with a long breath, purposely slowing his strides. He had hoped that the constancy of a new and unfamiliar environment would anchor him to the present, wearing down the melancholy his mother fusses over, but his mind is yet to get on board.

Shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, his sight sharpens back into focus, and Brian realizes that he doesn’t quite know the part of the ship he’s found himself in. He’s stood at the end of a long corridor, in front of a polished wooden staircase, as opposed to the steel ones he had been climbing before. There’s no one around him; the walls smooth and uninterrupted by cabin doors, and the silence inside the hallway suggests he’s several floors above any motor or machinery. He must be in a crew passageway, then, probably for those serving first-class.

He sits on the bottom stair and wills himself to consider his options. With little notion of retracing his steps, going back the way he came could potentially lead to him becoming even more lost. If he stays here in hopes of asking someone for directions (if this _was_ a crew area), he could also face conflict for being in an unauthorized area of the ship, especially as a third-class passenger. But climbing up might place him in an equally new and confusing situation—he doesn’t even know which deck he would be on.

Brian pulls out his pocket watch, squinting around the cracks and tarnish to read the time. It’s just past nine; he’s been gone for an hour, but still has another to figure how to get to deck B. Ultimately, if he has any aspirations of even remotely honoring his word to Deacon, upstairs is his best shot. A wooden staircase in an otherwise steel corridor has to lead to some semblance of public society above; as lavish as _Titanic_ is, Brian didn’t think such quality would be wasted on the crew.

At the top of the stairs, his suspicions are confirmed: he’s somewhere in first- or second-class accommodations. The corridor is padded with a lush burgundy carpet, and elegant pairs of shaded lamps are set into the walls at intervals between a long line of white doors framed in crown molding that continue down to his left. His first assumption is that he’s in berthing, and to his right, where the hallway abruptly ends and turns further into the interior of the ship, Brian can hear a low murmur of many conversations blended into one, a faint elevator bell ringing in the midst. He’s near a public area, then, on one of the upper decks. But his relief at rejoining civilization is soon subdued by his realization that, even if he does still have time, he can’t use it. Third-class is strictly prohibited from entering first- and second-class parts of the ship, on grounds of public health and safety. There’s no way he could hope to pass undetected, even if he moved quickly; his height would be sure to draw attention amongst the crowd, and one look at his faded and threadbare suit would stand out starkly against posh evening-wear. The shame and resentment creep back in—as if Brian could ever pretend they weren’t already always there—and he hunches his shoulders unconsciously, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

He turns his attention back towards the doors. They’re labeled with an oval plaque above the frame, but not in the deck letter-door number pattern of the cabins; these simply begin at one and continue down the number line. He’s hesitant to try any of the handles, but comes to a stop at number thirty-nine, whose door is barely open, as if unable to fully close. He spends a good minute or so deciding whether to attempt to open it, reasoning with himself while intently listening for any footsteps or conversation inside. Clearly, these aren’t crew accommodations, and likely not cabins of any kind. Not the kennels, or else he would hear barking; not any kind of public gathering space; and certainly not the loos.

Brian takes the chance, then, nudging the door open centimeter by centimeter. He meets no resistance, the silence undisturbed, and the door swings open to reveal what appears to be a storage room. Brian can’t exactly tell; it’s dark inside, and he’s dismayed for a moment before realizing that the room might have electricity. He gropes his hand along the wall before he reaches what seems like a knob (he’d seen one of the crew turn off a lamp with a similar device) and turns it.

Light flickers into the room, illuminating trunks upon trunks crammed into high and tight towers. His ability to enter is explained by the stack of trunks directly to his left, jutting barely a centimeter across the doorjamb and preventing the door from completely shutting. Interspersed and adding to the clutter are hatboxes, crates, suitcases, several large portmanteaus, and balanced precariously against one of the piles, a guitar case. No corner of the floor lies uncovered by the luggage, all marked with a bright red tag reading “not wanted.” The thought of someone owning all this, not even for need, apparently, but for luxury—and solely for a temporary journey, not even a permanent residence—is unfathomable. He goes to turn back into the corridor, curiosity sated, but the image of the guitar stops him.

It’s been years since he had the opportunity to play or even see a guitar in person. The family one was sold off years ago, when he was still a boy, in an attempt to pay debt that was inevitably never satisfied. The sight of the case brings a lingering sentimentality, promises of a time when joyful music sounded sincere.

According to his pocket watch, the better part of the hour is still his—and Brian never heard of a party that enforced punctuality. Beyond that, by ten, any first-class dinner would be in full swing; the elevators virtually deserted by passengers and crew alike, thus giving him the best opportunity to sneak out unseen.

He makes the decision before he even realizes it, scrambling over the piles and desperately hoping to prevent an avalanche. The room is deep enough into the hallway that Brian doubts the guitar could be heard from the elevators, and certainly not above all the conversation. He has time. 

Despite the uncomfortable position from squeezing himself to fit on top of one of the lower stacks of trunks, he feels the best he has in years. The instrument is surprisingly not very of out of tune, only needing a quick few adjustments. For the first few measures, he is nervous and paranoid, constantly glancing back towards the door and playing as softly as the strings will allow. Gradually, though, he relaxes into the music, turning over old melodies his father had taught him, improvising when he reaches gaps in his memory. Who Brian was before he started playing melts into obscurity, absorbed entirely in the music and stripped down to his essential. It’s natural, instinctive, _right—_

And his hands jump from the neck like he’s been burned when he hears the voices outside the door.

Footsteps beat quick patterns on the carpet as the conversation seems to end, and someone laughs, light and quick, before Brian hears a thump against the wall. He’s paralyzed, chest tight and heart beating erratically, frantically offering up prayers that no one opens the door. The concept of time is lost to him, and he has no idea how long it is before he is sure the hallway is silent again. He exhales a shaking breath, flexing his fingers until the feeling returns to them. Fumbling to lower the guitar into the case with shaking hands, he clambers over the luggage and rushes down the hallway in a panicked blur. Belatedly, he’ll wonder if he returned the instrument to its proper location, or if he closed the door, or if anyone saw him, or what those other people were doing, but right now the only thought pulsing through him is to move, move, _move_.

How Brian makes it to the B deck, aft, is lost to him. His memory blanks from the storage room to now sitting at a wooden bench, clutching a pint as if his life depends on it. The steady rhythm of the music—something Irish—pounds in the back of his skull, and he stays perfectly still until the mass of voices gradually strengthens from a muted buzz to the roar everyone else hears.

“You seen a ghost or something? You’re quite pale,” Deacon’s raised an eyebrow, looking at him curiously.

“I’m fine,” Brian grits out. To his credit, Deacon doesn’t pry, just asks if he might prefer something stronger, an offer which Brian gratefully accepts.

Later, staring up at the blank darkness above his bunk, his sleep is stolen by fear and adrenaline that pound through him to match the vibrations from the ship’s engines. He should resolve to stay away. Clearly, he was wrong about the amount of traffic the corridor received, and he reminds himself that he was incredibly lucky to not have been caught. He has no business meddling with someone else’s belongings, _finis,_ and the lingering anxiety that someone saw him leave and alerted the crew to his trespassing is more than a sufficient deterrent.

But.

For a while there, he’d been uninterrupted, and even the other people that came down the hallway, whoever they were, didn’t seen to be concerned with him. And as Brian doesn’t remember seeing anyone in the corridor, what is the likelihood of them conveniently appearing at the same time he left? Brian is tempted. This is an opportunity he won’t have in America—hell, hasn’t had in decades. And now, even with prudence screaming at him, even with the impending nightmare at the end of this little indulgence sharp and defined, it’s excruciating to let go.

Turning over and shifting the blanket closer to him, he can’t find it in himself to be terribly concerned with consequences.

* * *

Roger considers this part of the evening slightly more tolerable than dinner, if only because of the strong, plentiful alcohol to dull the pain of obligatory social pleasantries.

He’s staring at one of the colorful stained-glass windows behind someone’s (Andrews’? He can’t remember) head, only half-listening to the boasting of particular details of the first-class smoking room. He spares a glance at the thick patterned carpet, elegant green upholstery, and ornate mahogany arches—conceding that it meets his standards—but between being tossed overboard and participating in this conversation any longer, he embraces the former with open arms.

“—The grandest moving object ever created by man in all history,” Ismay, the director of the White Star Line, concludes. “And our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews, designed her from the keel plates up.”

The man in question looks down sheepishly, clearly not a player in the director’s theatrics. “Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea came from Mr. Ismay. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, so luxurious in its style, that its supremacy would never be questioned. And here she is,” punctuating his words with a rap on the table, “willed into solid reality.”

“So who coined the name ‘ _Titanic_ ’?” Roger figures that if he is forced to at least pretend interest, he should steer conversation away from building specifications.

Ismay smiles, smug and not entirely hiding it. “I wanted a name to capture sheer size. And with size comes stability, luxury, and safety.”

“Do you know of Dr. Freud? His thoughts about the male preoccupation with size might interest you, Director.”

Andrews chokes on his drink, shoulders pulled taught against his laughter.

A line appears between Ismay’s brows. “Freud—who is he? A passenger?”

Roger is spared from a very awkward explanation when a crew member walks up to the table, calling Andrews and Ismay away from their evening leisure.

Still smirking to himself, he stubs his cigarette out in the crystal ashtray and shifts to stand from the table before someone gracefully fills Andrews’ vacant seat.

Roger relaxes back into the furniture—preparing to plaster a smile on his face and rub elbows with yet another business connection—but the man seated across from him most certainly does not fit that assumption. He’s obviously foreign, with tanned skin, sharply defined cheekbones, and deep black hair, wearing a very flamboyant combination of colors in such elegant tailoring that Roger has to stifle an incredulous laugh.

“That was such an excellent joke that I’m heartbroken I didn’t think of it sooner.” He reaches over Roger for the ashtray to twist his own smoke against the glass, humor dancing in his eyes. He seems to have no reservations over his blatant eavesdropping or his intrusion into Roger’s personal space, an easy confidence flowing from his demeanor.

Roger only raises his eyebrows. “Thank you. Genius is quite the burden, you know, Mr.—”

“Mercury,” the man supplies. “But all this surname business is so pretentious, don’t you think? Call me Freddie.”

“A Mr. Mercury, as in Queen’s Tailoring?” Roger inclines his head before taking another sip of his drink.

“It really is Freddie, dear, but that’s the one.” He flashes a wink and toasts Roger’s glass.

They talk long into the night, about everything and nothing. Freddie is a fantastic conversation partner: a true socialite, with a sharp wit and keen insight. Undoubtedly eccentric, perhaps to the point of discomfort for some; but Roger has never regarded social punctilio with anything less than flagrant disdain. He learns Freddie is originally from one of the Empire’s Eastern colonies, but was educated in India, leading to an amusing, rather indecent comparison of their reminiscences of boarding school. Freddie is charmed by Roger’s haircut, ( _it makes a statement, darling, rather like yourself,)_ and declares his intentions to bring it into style. Discussion of their respective occupations leads to a lengthy bitching about demanding clients that leaves both of them in stitches. Later, the contrast will startle Roger; he hasn’t been so engaged, felt such a strong human connection, since returning from his education in France.

Eventually, a tightly courteous bartender informs them the room is closing for the evening, and they waltz out into the corridor, having had entirely too much fun and drink for one night. Freddie bids him farewell for his suite on an upper floor, and in a brief moment of sobriety, Roger is glad to have at least one consolation on the voyage.

Over the course of the following days, it’s not unusual for Roger to catch sight of Freddie across the dining room, the pair tracing social circles that occasionally overlap, though Freddie is a far more gracious dinner guest than Roger. Fortunately, however, they seem to always have time after the stilted pleasantries for a pint, sometimes cut short by a vague, hurried excuse from Freddie. On the evening of the orchestra’s concert in the atrium, their conversation turns to music, and Roger is delighted to learn that Freddie is as fascinated by the subject as himself, having taken piano lessons in his youth and in love ever since.

“But then you must have heard the guitar playing,” Freddie says after a drag, flicking his cigarette in the direction of the hallway outside the lounge.

Roger frowns. “I don’t remember a guitar among the orchestra.”

“No, no, dear,” Freddie distractedly dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand. “Down the corridor, right by here.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” He tries to catch Freddie’s eye, but the man is looking rather intently at something behind Roger. He swivels in his chair, only to see more patrons, engrossed in their own conversations—although if he wasn’t mistaken, one at a nearby table was sporting almost a blush.

“Well, you’ll simply have to hear it for yourself. It’s quite good. I’ve heard it for the past few nights or so, later, when it’s quiet.” Freddie checks his pocket watch before declaring that “It really is late dear, I must be going; I’ve got such an early breakfast,” setting his glass on the table and rising from his seat. He strolls out of the smoking room, buttoning his suit jacket. Roger snorts, knowing full well that breakfast doesn’t start until mid-morning, and that Freddie is equally as aware. However, if he wasn’t already occupied with his annoyance at the abrupt departure, _again_ , Roger would have seen a man get up from a table behind him soon after and walk into the hallway.

The following day is not a good one for him. Roger’s anger at Freddie’s continued casual abandonment keeps him tossing and turning all night, leaving no rest or patience in him for the day ahead. He jitters with restless nerves all day, temper thrown far over the deck railing and garnering more than a few strange looks. Dinner is drawn out obscenely long by business negotiations that are highly unlikely to be honored the next evening— _so what, exactly, is the goddamn point,_ in his opinion—and by the time the party shakes hands to retire for the evening, Roger is about to snap.

Within minutes of arriving in the first-class smoking room, he’s already several shots down in an attempt to quell the headache pounding against his temples. A rather uneasy bartender swaps the empty glasses out for fresh ones, and while this is definitely not appropriate for the image he is supposed to be displaying, his suite is a far more cramped, enraging option. Roger half-hopes to see Freddie tonight, though it soon becomes apparent that his dinner ran later than he assumed: the lounge is empty save for a few single patrons studying the bottom of their glass in silence. His thoughts are increasingly quieter now, wrapped in a heavy haze from the alcohol. Absently, he tugs at his collar and drums a random pattern on the bar-top, which reminds him of music which reminds him of Freddie which reminds him of this supposed guitar playing. Hell, he’s bored out of his mind, and if he stays any longer, he might be roped into very unappealing conversation with the bartender.

He stands rather ungracefully and waits for the room to come back into full focus before walking out into the corridor, albeit not in a very straight manner. To his immediate left are the elevators, and unless the crew has spontaneously decided to offer inter-floor entertainment, turning right is the way to go.

He meanders down towards the long line of doors, the floor swimming only a little, and he recognizes the storage facilities for extra first-class baggage not needed inside the suites. Absently, he thinks his own space should be around here somewhere, but he can’t be arsed to remember which number. Roger reaches almost halfway and is nearly ready to give in and head back to his suite before he hears it. Mellow, sweet, and gentle, he knows the melody instantly—something de Koven, a popular wedding song now adapted from piano to guitar. Squinting, he can’t quite make out the number on the plaque above, but it’s the only door with light peaking out through the gap between wood and carpet. He pauses, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. Freddie was right; whoever is playing is clearly talented, though out of practice from the occasional fumbling of notes and accidental double stops. By the time the final chorus plays, he’s singing along under his breath, and impulsively pushes the door open to applaud the player.

Immediately, the music stops, the strings squeaking under a shifted grip. He hears someone draw a sharp breath, and he moves to stand on the threshold, eyes searching the room to focus on the source amongst the clutter.

“Oh, my God, I’m so, terribly, sorry,” Ah, there we go. It’s a bloke, near his age, perched on a dubiously stable stack of trunks, his long, thin legs pulled up in an uncomfortable-looking position to accommodate the guitar in his lap. Dark curls rest on sharp shoulders, contrasting against a very pale face.

The man just stares at him, frozen in place and clearly terrified, and once Roger recovers from the initial surprise, he can understand why. Guitar player is most certainly not the owner of this storage—his grey suit, though neat and clean, is faded and several times mended, bordering on threadbare in the elbows and knees. Third-class, then: guilty of trespassing into a prohibited part of the ship, and using someone else’s belongings to boot.

Roger almost admires the man.

“No need. Keep playing,” he gestures dismissively, looking for a seat of his own without toppling a pile of luggage and getting a face full of leather.

He gets no response, and Roger remembers he’s forgotten a key piece of information. “I’m Roger Taylor, by the way. I’ll just shake your hand from over here, if you don’t mind.”

The man swallows, clears his throat. “Brian May.”

“Well then, Mr. May, go on,” Roger motions for him to continue.

He fumbles over his words for a few seconds before admitting that he can’t really think of anything at the moment, and Roger laughs, says he doesn’t care what he plays so long as he isn’t stopping.

Tentatively, he picks out a melody Roger doesn’t recognize, adding small variations every so often, but Roger is absorbed in watching Brian. His long fingers reach far across the strings with a shy gracefulness, not controlling the music but coaxing the guitar to speak. His brows are furrowed tightly in concentration, his eyelashes fluttering and gaze shifting away when a note doesn’t sound quite right, could be better, there, let’s try it this way. There’s no pretentiousness or exaggeration to his playing, and he doesn’t need it—the music speaks for itself.

Roger finally manages to tear his gaze away when he realizes it’s quiet again and Brian is looking expectantly at him.

“That wasn’t bad,” is all he manages, still redirecting his attention back towards speech capabilities.

Brian huffs, shaking his head and muttering a thanks down towards the floor. A beat of silence—then his head suddenly jerks up, and he’s already to his feet and snapping the guitar case shut before Roger can blink, stuttering excuses and apologies while clambering over the clutter towards the door.

Roger moves without thinking, grabbing the man’s wrist. Brian looks up, shocked, and Roger knows he’s breaking all sorts of sacred, fundamental rules about interacting with strangers, but some part of him, buried deep in the back of his mind, knows this is someone worth a risk.

“Don’t let me scare you off,” he tries for a joke. “Besides, I think the hatboxes get a little bored sometimes.”

Brian flashes a bemused, awkward half-smile before the door swings (mostly) shut behind him. Roger just stands there, and it occurs to him that he saw the man the day _Titanic_ left Southampton, out on the third-class deck. They’ve crossed paths twice, now. He is most definitely not hoping for a third.


	4. iv. millionaire suite; atlantic ocean; april 1912

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes period-typical attitudes about social class and sexuality (though no slurs are used). please proceed with caution if you are sensitive to either of these subjects. at any rate, please excuse my butchering of british culture and gratuitous use of aquatic imagery.

****

_That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning, yet long untaught I did not hear,_

_But now the chorus I hear and am elated,_

_A tenor, strong, ascending with power and health, with glad notes of daybreak I hear_

Walt Whitman, “That Music Always Round Me”

 

Roger is a sophisticated man. Raised in the peaceful seclusion of South English countryside, schooled privately under the guidance of preeminent tutors, indulged in every fleeting interest; no experience or opportunity was too lavish or unjustified for a wealthy man’s only son. He was doted on by the manor’s servants and beloved by all visitors for his charm and wit: a shining, magnetic figure of infinite potential. Later education abroad saw him emerge fully as a cosmopolitan, with lauding, powerful connections in his pocket and imports from other parts of Europe and the East in his armoire. After retuning from his sojourn, he was a quick study under his father’s wing, soon declared the harbinger of unprecedented success for the family, and celebrated like a god. Swathed, nursed, and adored in Her arms, Luxury is as innate and intimate to him as height or shoe size.

Thus, the notion that someone like Brian would have his interest is absurd. Roger is diligent in every responsibility; Brian’s laziness duly causes his poverty. Roger is competent in every request made of him; Brian cannot even provide properly for his family. Roger is a well-bred gentleman; Brian is who the constables usher out of sight.

Roger is a terrible liar.

When sulking in his suite only manages to make him more miserable and drives an exasperated Lovejoy to a stern intervention, he makes a point to never not be busy. With quite literally nothing to do, he begrudgingly undertakes the one thing he is actually supposed to while on the ship: socialize. Around dinner or card tables, he puts a face to every name in first-class, taking advantage of a novelty combination of youth and charisma and gritting his teeth against the pretension. Any rumors brought up concerning the family name are quickly dispelled with affirmations of promising investments and the approaching wedding. Much to his displeasure, however, his matrimony is a favorite conversation, and he receives assurances from several illustrious Philadelphia residents that they’ll be in attendance.

On the rare occasion he finds himself alone, Freddie joins him for a smoke when available, although that occasion seems to be becoming increasingly rare. Freddie refuses to give him a straight answer to explain his absences, leaving Roger skeptical—there’s only so many social circles aboard the ship, and Roger has frequented all of them—but as a conversation with Freddie never fails to keep his interest, no matter how short it lasts, Roger brushes it off.

It isn’t long, however, before he runs into more trouble than unreliable company. Roger is, of course, aware of the covert glances and disapproving mutters directed towards their table. Combined with suspicions about Freddie’s absences and knowledge of his personality, Roger is well attuned to the probable reality. And while it’s of no importance to him, the same cannot be said for his peers. On a night when Freddie is already busy, he strikes up a conversation with a nearby table, only to be stiffly dismissed with a stilted adieu, and more than a few squirming passengers throw backhanded comments during breakfasts and lunches about his rather _peculiar_ associations. At first, he is frustrated, barely holding a snide mark back behind his apologetic smile. But the more frequently he is cast out, a fear blooms in his chest and curls upward to wrap its grip around his thoughts. Two sentences could dismantle a rapport that took hours and a sterling name to build, and suddenly, he is not as effortlessly welcome as he believed.

The anxiety crests during a conversation with Freddie—the first time in several days they have been able to meet. Freddie is as cheerful as ever, recounting a disastrous dinner incident embellished with exuberant gestures that would otherwise send Roger into fits, but he’s struggling to even concentrate on the face across the table. The stares and the comments have only become more brazen, tonight especially, as if determined to push down on Roger until he bows in the dignified posture of social subservience. His grip is tight and white-knuckled on the armrest, each breath a little shorter. He waits impatiently for a lull in Freddie’s narrative, then excuses himself quickly, citing fatigue. Freddie offers him a perplexed but sympathetic look and a good night. By the time he arrives at his suite, leaning forward on the door to let his forehead rest against the wood, Roger is holding himself up by sheer will. Though his body is exhausted and insistent for rest, he lies awake waiting for the tightness in his throat and the tangle of red-hot emotion simmering inside his chest to subside.

Before, the thought of Freddie would calm him, would focus his thoughts on the levity of their conversations and the bone-deep satisfaction of genuine friendship. Tonight, that only sends another crash of jagged sparks through him that threaten to spill out, sending burning splinters into him in the process. Without the distraction of Freddie, he is unprotected against an ugly loneliness that presses on his sternum and steals his breath. Normally, it is tucked snugly beneath an ever-present antipathy that loudly demands dominance of his thoughts, but Roger is too tired to pretend that he is as shallow as anger.

With the weight on his chest stubbornly come the dark curls and kind eyes seared into the backs of his eyelids. Roger has steadfastly ignored the reoccurring image with an optimism to rival Sisyphus. He was bored, dissatisfied, and a little too drunk that night—nothing more. When that affirmation wilts under the slightest prod, Roger diverts and conjures up everything wrong and unappealing about May, only for his mind to concentrate on the few precious words he had spoken, the graceful movements of his playing, the bashful smile peeking out from behind a curtain of hair. May is not worth his thoughts nor his time, which is exactly why Roger has not made a detour every night for the past three days to ‘search through’ extra luggage that he has no intention of bringing to his suite, nor why he certainly does not attempt to be as quiet as possible in hopes of hearing something more than his own footsteps.

Roger is a trapped man. He loathes to continue his social party tricks, and each day his thinly-veiled irritation bleeds out a little more: a sharper tone, a longer pause, a quicker change of subject. But he is wary of risking the social repercussions and the emotional toll of extended contact with Freddie, because as much as he might ignore it, _Titanic_ has a destination. But he cannot stand to be alone.

Roger turns over, ruffling the sheets before deciding the bedroom is too warm to sleep. Shoving off the eiderdown, he slips on a robe and pads out onto the promenade, desperate for a smoke. The mindlessness of the lapping of the waves and the blank, inky sky are a sharp contrast to the furious activity of his thoughts. Lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, he lets out a bitter laugh. The voyage is already eleven days shorter, and he can’t have them back. Roger is supposed to be enjoying himself, and any freedom he has on the ship has been wasted by running in circles inside his own head. He won’t be sleeping any more tonight, and Roger would rather jump off the stern than to lie in bed with only his thoughts to occupy him.

As a child, his sleepless nights were calmed by music, whether his mother’s lullabies or the heirloom music box passed down through the generations. There is nothing of the sort in his cabin—but there is that guitar in the storage room.

Admittedly, seeing the instrument here on _Titanic_ , apparently unused, had piqued his interest. Roger was introduced to the instrument one summer by a gloating older cousin, promptly demanded one of his own, and was soon never found without it in his free time. His music had been integral to his adjustment to living away from home, with the added benefit of attracting praise and attention. He hadn’t brought his own guitars on the voyage, however, as they and the majority of his personal effects are to be sent to America after he arrives.

Roger had intended to ask May if he wouldn’t mind sharing, but had been far too invested in encouraging him to continue to even think about his own opportunity. And with the shock of May’s abrupt departure, Roger had completely forgotten that he could have just sat down and played himself. It was probably for the best, though, as intoxication doesn’t lend well to fine motor skills.

The wind begins to pick up out on the promenade, the air too cold for Roger’s liking, and he steps back inside and fishes his pocket watch out of his jacket to check the time. It’s midnight, leaving him with far too much time until dawn. Yet it’s still unlikely that he’d be disturbed if he wanted a quick go with the instrument—even May was unlikely to be out. A part of him drops in disappointment at the thought, but meets swift banishment to the corners of his mind. Roger throws his day clothes back on and heads out the door, and if he’s not quite sure whether he wants the guitar or the guitar player, he doesn’t dwell on it. 

* * *

“Are you going to eat that, mate?”

Brian startles, and looks up with wide eyes to see one of his cabin-mates across the table, pointing a fork at the roasted pork left untouched on his plate. 

“Er, no, go ahead,” he stammers out. The man throws him a bemused glance, but is thankfully more concerned with the increase in his dinner portion, leaving Brian to compose himself as he recedes into the background of the evening meal.He takes a sip of water to ease the dryness of his throat, the conversations around him an indistinguishable buzz that drive his headache only deeper.

He knows his attitude is unbecoming—meat is a rarity, seldom afforded, and not only was he not required to bring his own food provisions for the voyage, he is provided three meals a day of quality and consistency that he could only dream of back home. He should be enjoying himself, taking advantage of luxury so readily offered. Instead, his whole body is rigid with nerves, appetite long left behind in the wake of the ship’s hull.   
Brian leans his head into the cradle of his palm as he pushes the remaining food around his plate, posture limp with exhaustion. The past three days have made him a marionette pulled taut by strings of terror, silent and stiff and lost to an endless replay of memory.

He doesn’t manage to stay away from the guitar. Returning a couple of days after his first visit, though later than before due to the difficult process of recreating his path, he finds the night this time uneventful. Playing freely and leisurely is nothing short of glorious: the music grounds him, weaving together the scattered pieces of himself around the strings and through the notes. He accidentally spends nearly three hours with the instrument before he remembers to check the time, only leaving when keeping his eyes open requires herculean effort.

Brian soon acclimates to the occasional activity outside the room. At first, the paranoia grips him like a vice, ears straining for the sound of footsteps or voices, his concentration continuously braking. But it soon becomes clear that no one there wants to be bothered, or perhaps more appropriately, _found._ On the paralyzing occasion that he runs into two men, too close to each other to be considered proper, they barely spare him a glance, hastily moving down the line of doors while continuing their murmured conversation. He never encounters any complaints or inquiries into his music, and so when another pair of footsteps ambles down the corridor, he thinks nothing of it.

After his rushed and rather rude departure, Brian flees down the corridor and back to his cabin, shame filling his lungs and breath coming in short, harsh pants. He fumbles with the door key for so long that a very disgruntled cabin-mate finally swings the door open in annoyance, apparently already in bed. Stepping inside on unsteady legs, Brian can’t respond to the gruff query about his trouble with the lock, instead shuffling towards the wash basin. The cold splash of water on his face clears some of his panic-stricken mind, and distantly, he realizes that it is far later in the night than he expected.

He’s grateful for the privacy of the darkness, climbing up onto his bunk and burrowing underneath the blanket. His heart is still thumping against his chest, roaring so loud in his ears he’s almost surprised someone hasn’t complained about that disturbance, too. He tosses and turns all night, every second of his interaction with Taylor soaked in fear. He’s convinced of an impending knock on the door, demanding an explanation for his rash behavior. Roger could and should rightfully inform the crew, but Brian is terrified of the consequences—though, in the middle of the ocean, they can’t exactly take him anywhere. Upon arrival in New York, however, he could easily be subjected to prosecution if the owner of the luggage was an American or extradited to face justice in his own country. The sudden guilt drowns him: his parents are depending on him to provide for them, and he certainly can’t from behind bars. Above all, he’s furious at himself: he knows better. He is always so careful, and he’s gone and fucked it all up barely a week into the voyage. Brian is slightly comforted by the fact that Taylor was clearly drunk and thus in possession of a much foggier memory, and maybe, just maybe, if he’s extremely lucky and very careful about avoiding first class accommodations, Taylor will forget his name and have no opportunity to remember it upon seeing his face.

Taylor himself, however, is something else altogether. Unmistakably the man Brian had seen up on the deck the evening _Titanic_ set sail, and even more eye-catching in person. Full lips and impossibly blue eyes, golden hair curled in soft waves, close enough for Brian to count every wispy eyelash. Even reeking of alcohol and tobacco, he was stunning. But Taylor is an aristocrat, was without all his wits, and, more importantly, is a bloke. Brian’s—fixation—is odd and inappropriate, and he wants to forget about the whole incident, rather than dwell on it endlessly.

A thunderstorm of emotions and eyes the color of a cloudless sky alternately keep him awake for several nights. Fatigue makes him irritable and sluggish the next mornings, and paranoia leaves him tense and on edge. He finds that any social activity drains him, irritated with the immaturity of his cabin-mates and too tired to be polite. His silence and self-imposed isolation make him more of a killjoy than a wallflower, and the teasing adds up until he can’t stand it anymore.

"So Brian, who put that stick up your arse, anyways?” He’s pulled out of his musings to face a loud bout of laughter, only for his scowl to drive the truth of the jab deeper.

All of the exhaustion, the stress, the frustration, the fear, and the guilt from the past three days explode out of him, unable to be bottled up anymore. It makes him reckless.

“Would it inconvenience you terribly to mind your own damn business, for once?” He tosses his napkin down onto the table and stalks out of the room, the rush of blood and the jeers from the table behind him roaring in his ears.

Brian walks with no destination, seething and consumed entirely by emotion. He makes no effort to hide it in his posture or expression, eyes trained on the ground and none too gently shouldering through the crowds. Unthinkingly, his feet bring him to the only place on the ship where he can truly relax, and just as he turns the corner into the hallway, he slams into a slender mass of black suit. Instinctively, his hands reach up to the stranger’s shoulders to steady himself, but as soon as his eyes snap up to see a very familiar face, he jerks them back, cheeks flushing red.

The words completely bypass his brain, crashing into the space between him and Taylor before he can even process their meaning.

“Oh, as if this day could possibly be any worse!”

Taylor cocks an eyebrow. “Well, if you were that averse to my company, you should have mentioned it before.”

Brian could just melt into the floor now, thank you.

“My apologies, God, I am so sorry, that was not at all what I meant to say,” He’s blabbering at this point, absolutely mortified at his outburst.

Taylor snorts, rocking on his heels. “May I ask what you did mean to tell me, then?”

“Watch out?” Brian offers weakly, and as awkward as he feels, he can’t help but join in Taylor’s ringing laughter.

But as the conversation dwindles, Brian realizes that he needs a way to excuse himself as believably and gracefully as possible.

“Well, then, did you find what you were looking for?” He gestures towards the line of doors behind Taylor.

“What? Oh, no, I really just got here,” He pulls out a thin chain attached to a skeleton key, twirling it a little to rest in his palm, his feet tapping restlessly.

Brian’s brow knits together in confusion. “Oh, is there another entrance at the end of the corridor?”

“Just got a bit turned around, actually,” he flashes a winning, if tired, smile that half-charms, half-confuses Brian.

“Oh, right,” Brian is still unsure whether Taylor remembers him, afraid to say anything incriminating. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Roger nods, turning and sauntering down the hallway. “I don’t think you’ll find anyone disturbing your music, by the way,” he throws over his shoulder.

Brian freezes, at a loss for a response. Panic bubbles up in him, and he nearly bolts out of the corridor before considering that if Taylor recognized him and remembered the last time they met, he likely would not make such a comment if he wasn’t willing, at the very least, to tolerate Brian ‘borrowing’ the guitar. And the allure of playing without fear of discovery is not easily ignored.

He waits until Taylor has unlocked and stepped inside a room much further down the hall, missing the puzzled, almost disappointed glance thrown over a shoulder in his direction, before swiftly making his way to door thirty-nine and disappearing inside as quickly as possible.

Turning on the lights, he takes a deep breath. Thank God for the guitar, because he has so much to think about.

* * *

Roger can’t decide if this is the best or worst possible turn of events. In rumpled, day-old clothes, with dark circles under his eyes and a perpetual anxious jitter, he runs into the one person who he can’t stop thinking about. The same person he decidedly resolved, not an hour ago, to fully and completely ignore. On top of that, his previous plan is now null and void; the guitar is most likely in use, leaving him with absolutely nothing to do except fidget aimlessly in a room that he already knows far too well.

It would have been easy to stroll down to number thirty-nine and make May believe the room was his, allowing Roger to decompress in peace. Except knowing he had driven May away would have only tormented him further, especially with the man so clearly frazzled: his drooped posture, wan skin, and unkept appearance were clear testaments to ill health. Roger has no conception of third-class accommodations, but he can assume they’re no Hyde Park Hotel. And May’s initial reaction to seeing him suggested their first meeting hadn’t escaped his mind nor stayed for any pleasant purpose. Roger knows he had had more than enough to loosen his tongue, but he _is_ still a gentleman, after all.   
So instead, he’s here in his own little room, the millionth time over, and frankly not even bothering to attempt at an alibi. Roger slides down to the floor with his back against a large portmanteau, closing his eyes and listening as the first few bars of music begin to float down towards him. It’s sharper, louder, tonight; the notes sent out by frustrated fingers to chase each other through the corridor. Roger doesn’t know the tune, but it’s recognizably Irish, lilting low and high. Unsurprising for third-class, lovely all the same. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, curled up in silence, relaxed and lost to the melody, yet unable to settle the heavy feeling in his chest. The melodies gradually become more complex, changing keys and rhythms and twirling musical loops in the air. He allows the music to envelop him, smoothing over rough and jagged edges, wearing his anger and fatigue and fear down until they are no longer larger than life, larger than him. The notes chip away until he is pleasantly hollow, buoyed on tranquility.

Eventually, the music ends, and he should go before May sees him and realizes that Roger never left, obviously not searching through his luggage. As he makes his way out of the hallway, he stops outside thirty-nine, hesitant. He stares at the white polished wood, and just as he wills himself to walk away, the door swings inward. They stare at each other for a long moment, before May’s eyes move down to Roger’s empty hands, no belongings in sight. Understanding flickers in his expression, the core of a delighted surprise, and he relaxes his posture and offers a full, true smile that breaks through Roger’s frozen indecision like warm summer sun. “Couldn’t find what you were looking for?”

 _Actually, I did._ “Must’ve left it back home. Traveling can be such a hassle, you know.”

May nods, looking down and biting his lip. “You are, eh, welcome in, if you should need to take your mind off it,” he brings his gaze back up to level with Roger’s, voice steady but nervousness in his eyes.

Roger breaks into a smile of his own. “Glad to see I didn’t scare you off the first time, then. But, for the love of God, don’t play so slow.”


	5. v. boat deck; atlantic ocean; april 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i never really have any cause to write romance, so if this is terrible, please don't crucify me.

_What is all this sweet work worth_

_If thou kiss not me?_

Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Love’s Philosophy”

 

It becomes their habit. Every evening, sometime around midnight, they rendezvous in an unspoken agreement, stealing moments in cramped privacy between towers of luggage. Through trial and error, the routine smoothens, accounting for first class dinners that may last several hours, Freddie’s spontaneous availability, and the need to maintain appearances. Of course, there are nights when one of them never shows, unpredictably caught in the surge of social obligation and unable to communicate to the other. Sometimes cabin-mates throw suspicious glances or suggestive comments, and sometimes there is no way out of a conversation but through ‘till the end. No apologies are said between them, only witty remarks reined in or patience held a little longer. Whether expectations exist is a matter of debate when they are never voiced.

They soon decide to permanently meet in Taylor’s storage room in order to eliminate risk of the true occupant of thirty-nine walking in, and with the luggage only collecting dust, they figure that the guitar won’t be missed. To prevent suspicion about a third-class man in first-class belongings, Brian follows Taylor inside. There is always uncertainty; no night is guaranteed, and so Brian doesn’t allow himself to look forward to it. He trains his mind to concentrate on the present and only remember Taylor when he is knocking on the door, but that smile with tongue tucked behind teeth has his heart somersaulting every time.

A part of him is surprised that they get on so well. Outwardly, the two are perfect opposites: blond and brunet, graceful lines and angular edges, outward fire and inward storms, fine silk and cheap cotton. Taylor cuts the perfect picture of aristocracy, a true English Adonis: flush with youth, charisma, money, and freedom. Brian does not need a mirror to be painfully aware of his differences. And often Taylor’s conversation reflects his status: charming and loquacious, but with undercurrents of poorly-veiled arrogance and a careless disinterest in the world at his feet. His impressive knowledge from his many travels and experiences can descend into entitled rants over slights to his comfort, and the immaturity never fails to grate on Brian’s nerves. He often wonders how Taylor can live with the irony—a cosmopolitan with minimal knowledge of how most of the world lives. Brian feels at times uncomfortable or unsure interacting with someone whose reality only exists in his wildest fantasies, but to Taylor’s credit, he seems to be genuinely, respectfully interested in Brian. In conversations where Brian is only half-listening, with nothing of relevance to say, Taylor manages to toss in some witty remark that offers him laughter and a change of subject. There is no patronization in his words, and he waits until Brian finishes speaking unless suddenly overcome with a burning passion to share his own viewpoint.

Some nights are dominated by music, both needing to simply rest from the frenzy of the day. At first, Brian assumes any silence would be awkward, half-prepared for Taylor to change his mind in the quiet and for their little arrangement to come crashing down around his ears. But as the man’s relaxed posture never changes, only occasionally speaking up to comment on a key change here, modify a riff there, Brian allows the tension to melt from his frame and truly enjoy the solace in playing. He’s had to clear his throat and gently nudge a dozed-off Taylor more than once, and on the evenings when he can barely muster the energy to keep his eyes open, Taylor has either moved the guitar to his own lap or graciously excused himself.

Other nights, their conversation hovers above the melody or is so engrossing that he forgets to continue playing. He lets Taylor do most of the talking, as what he has to say could hardly be interesting to an aristocrat. Brian learns that his destination is Philadelphia, for a celebration already anticipated as the wedding of the century. Taylor seems less than thrilled, however, and so the conversation flits from his childhood to his education to his interest in music. There, Brian can see Taylor’s true passion: in his opinions of previous and contemporary composers, in his detailed knowledge of multiple instruments, and in his own style and idiosyncrasies in playing. He can’t shake the disappointment of seeing someone so lively be corralled into the drudge of commerce.

Music, however, is what brought them together, and it remains at the core of their time. It is the one subject that Brian does not feel intimidated or unqualified to speak on: where their opinions, though many times opposing, can stand on equal ground. Taylor is clearly talented, though he often strangely defers to Brian, seemingly far more interested in solely listening. Brian recoils from the idea that it is out of pity, but is unable to put his finger on the true reasoning behind his actions.

In the whirlwind of knowing Roger Taylor, a small part of him preens and dares to stretch further with every chance for a lingering stare, a smile, a brief brush of hands. Lying in bed and listening to the roar of the ship’s engines, he traces the lines of Taylor’s face and the flow of his voice, allowing the memories to stay a little longer each time. The images linger into the following day, a new color on the backs of his eyelids. When they interrupt his concentration on far more important and realistic happenings, he firmly berates himself and vows to push them away, only to welcome them back with open arms in the darkness. Brian tries to remember that Taylor should have no part in or bearing on his life, and each time he can’t bring himself to lie.

* * *

Roger has always embraced the world for its plethora of distractions. There is always something to buy, somewhere to be, someone to charm: sophisticated rows of silk and cashmere; proud arches of stone and painted wood; teasing brushes of satin and lace. And as enthusiastically as he throws himself into the swirls of the sensual world, Roger is always given the key to the city. Visitor or resident, stranger or beloved, the glitterati welcome him the same: bestowing luxury and blessings and beautiful company. When invitations for his wedding were received, there was almost a time of mourning, by father and daughter alike.

But though the flirtation, the praise, and the glamor abound on _Titanic_ , Roger still finds himself curled up in the same obscure storage room most evenings. He never considered a distraction from distractions, but May’s music and sparse conversation are alluringly plain. He immensely enjoys his time with Freddie, but for all his magnetism, the tailor can seem permanently wrapped in theatrics with an extravagance that reaches the unpalatable thickness of crystallized honey. Like everyone else he knows on the ship, Freddie is relatively predictable.

May is not.

He does not seem particularly impressed by or engaged in the conversations Roger is accustomed to, only sitting quietly until Roger runs out of breath or changes the subject himself. Though May is normally serious and guarded, a few words from Roger can either reveal a remarkably sincere smile or draw the lines of tension in his posture even tauter. Roger wishes he understood which words match which reaction—even his best attempts at humor can fall flat.

Asking May to share his personal life is like opening an oyster with bare hands. He must be from London, judging by the accent, and has mentioned that he’s traveling to America for work. But beyond that, Roger knows virtually nothing. May is very reluctant to speak on the matter, suddenly flustered and almost never offering the information willingly. Roger is torn between frustration and curiosity; it’s difficult to know someone who never talks about himself.

The only subject that guarantees May’s attention is music. Roger is secretly grateful, as with someone equally as passionate about music, he can share even the minutiae of his perspective without flippant dismissal of the arts. From how May easily and unconsciously recognizes the complex patterns of music theory, Roger guesses that if the man had a similar education to himself, his insights into anything remotely scholastic would meet competition. And while May doesn’t seem to mind small talk, he is just as content without it—the comfortable silence is a novelty to Roger, but one he accepts all the same. When he does speak, May shows a surprising thoughtfulness and civility, considering his background. The man is as elusive and mutable as a current: honest yet reserved, awkward but a good listener, and flowing beneath it all, the intensity of sharp intelligence.

Any resolve Roger made to ignore or minimize his presence in his thoughts has dissolved. At each knock on the door, he lights up, barely reminding himself to curb his enthusiasm into politeness. Roger finds himself sitting a bit closer, thinking quicker for a better joke, eyes drifting down and towards lips. He knows this feeling. It runs away from him, and unthinking, he lets it.

Tonight, however, it seems he’ll have to wait another day to see the man of the hour. Tapping his foot restlessly against a trunk, Roger waits and tries to ignore the stuffiness of the room. For the past several days, rain has thrashed the deck while thunder clattered outside, effectively trapping everyone indoors. He was assured by the crew at breakfast that the storm would clear by early tomorrow morning, and Roger is impatient for fresh air and open space.

After almost an hour, he concedes the point and leaves, detouring from his suite to see if he can at least go out on the deck without becoming drenched. Fortunately, the winds have shifted in his favor, and he walks out of the ship to lean against the railing. He breathes in the relief of a strong, cold breeze, though it’s unfortunately preventing any chance for a smoke. He stares at the slowly calming water before dropping his sight to the third-class deck below: where a sole, very familiar figure is looking directly upwards at the sky. Roger follows his gaze, craning his neck to see bright stars embedded in the black, stretching far out into the distance. He doesn’t notice anything in particular—no falling stars or fireworks—and looks back down to see May shifting his position as if to get a better look at something, focus still trained above. Roger watches him for a few moments before he realizes the man is probably searching for some constellation.

Before he can stop himself, he’s calling down to May.

“Care to say what’s so fascinating, up there?”

May startles and whips around, freezing when he sees Roger. He is too far way to make out his expression, but the razor sharp lines in his posture tell all. He starts to answer, no doubt an apology, but Roger is already disappearing indoors and climbing down the stairs to reach the lower deck.

He walks up to the man's side, hands in his pockets from the cold. “This is much better than yelling across the deck,” he says as way of introduction.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t what it looks like,” May starts breathlessly.

Roger laughs. “You know, I have to admit I’ve never been stood up for the stars.” He means it lightly, but May only flushes, ducking his head.

“This is the first night all week that it’s been clear. I wish I could’ve told you earlier, but I figured you wouldn’t mind. Probably tired of my face,” he laughs quietly.

Roger hadn’t even realized that neither of them were pulled away by other obligations all week. He shrugs, rocking back on his heels.

“Who else knows how to play guitar around here?”

May’s eyes flick up from the floor, mouth quirked into a half-smile and shaking his head before turning his attention skyward.

Roger mirrors him, still with no clue what May finds so interesting. “So what am I looking at?”

He can feel May’s eyes back on him, and when he turns, he meets a very puzzled expression. Roger only raises an eyebrow, gesturing for him to explain.

May clears his throat before pointing to their right and beginning to connect lines in the sky. When he traces what is supposed to be a lion, Roger squints and offers his own interpretation of the constellation, much to his guide’s amusement. As the wind picks up, they huddle together, though May seems oblivious and completely lost to the stars above them. He points out a few more, equally baffling to Roger, before their sight is obstructed by columns.

“I would show you others, but you can’t see them behind the smoke stacks,” May apologizes.

“That’s alright. It’s late anyways.” Roger pauses before adding, “Is there a part of the ship where you could see them from?”

May frowns. “Sure, but that would be on the first class decks,” he trails off.

“Well, if the weather holds tomorrow, I want to see them.” Despite his steady voice, Roger bites the inside of his cheek.

“Why wait until then? Can’t you just go and see them now?”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t know the first place to start, and I need you for that.”

May starts to protest, but Roger cuts him off.

“You’ll be fine. And I know you want to see those stars. Let’s meet here tomorrow, same time.”

May eventually agrees before excusing himself inside, confusion still drawn in the lines of his face. Roger stays out on the deck a little longer, continuing to look at the sky. He’s completely forgotten everything said earlier; astronomy was never of any particular interest to him. But he would stay out here all night if it meant seeing the joy radiating off May again. Clearly, he was in love with the stars, and a part of Roger is disappointed that he never mentioned it before. And how the man even manages to see them through London’s haze of smog and grit is a mystery to him. Out in the country, by Roger’s estate, he could see—

And Roger turns sharply on his heel and strides back inside. He needs to get ahold of himself and come back to reality; he barely knows the man, for God’s sake. Anger bubbles up inside him, never gone for long, and Roger is faced with the door of his suite before he knows it. He smokes through several cigarettes before he feels calm enough to sleep, but when he closes his eyes, the memories only sharpen, fill in color and depth until May might as well be lying beside him. He falls into a fitful sleep just as the first rays of dawn touch the curtains, exhausted by his own storm of emotion.

The next day is one of the busiest yet of the voyage. Lovejoy drags him out of bed at an ungodly hour; Roger is only vaguely aware of instructions to get decent quickly. By the time he straggles into the dining saloon, the breakfast of supposed divine urgency is in full swing, and after several gulps of mimosa, Roger understands why his servant was hell-bent on his attendance. Seated around him are _Titanic_ ’s most distinguished men of commerce, and for Roger to miss such a gathering might unravel all of his work heretofore to salvage the family reputation. No one looks particularly pleased to see him, but by the end of the meal, he is confident of a very convincing performance.

His day is spent with several different faces from breakfast, including a representative from his fiancée’s father’s corporation. They mix like oil and vinegar, but Roger recognizes the importance of having someone permanently obliged to be in his corner, and it has sheltered him from the backlash of more than a few of his comments taken the wrong way. Conversely, he’s under another layer of scrutiny, which Lovejoy reminds him not to take as a personal challenge. Roger is sure that anything remotely curious he says or does is being relayed back home, and in response, he mentions that the new investment into left-handed axes looks very promising.

By evening, Roger is jittering with impatience. He repeatedly attempts to excuse himself, only to be swept up in another conversation as he makes his way out of the lounge. The urge to check the time is gnawing at him: he doesn’t want to be late for May, but he can’t draw any more curious glances. Roger eventually manages to leave, barely holding his frustration in check, and races over to his cabin. He hastily throws on a new set of clothes—he realized early on May’s aversion to tobacco—and grabs the astronomy book he pulled from the ship’s library, swearing when his pocket watch reads he’s already an hour past their agreed-upon time. He avoids any path through first-class accommodations, which necessities a longer route that only makes him further late.

By the time he reaches the third-class deck, taking the stairs two at a time, there’s no one in sight. Still catching his breath, he lets out an angry sigh, muttering under his breath, before the other door on the opposite side of the deck swings open. May pokes his head out, his expression unreadable.

“You came.”

Roger’s brows furrow together. “‘Course I did.”

A beat of silence lingers between them, May’s hand still wrapped around the door handle and eyes glancing down to see the book tucked underneath Roger’s arm.

“What’d you bring?”

“Oh, right.” He holds it out to May. “I dunno if it’s any good, just saw it earlier. Thought it might help.”

May opens the book, the spine cracking as he thumbs through the pages.

He meet Roger’s gaze, lips parted as if to say something, before he looks down and clears his throat, tucking the book into his coat.

“Thank you. The map in there, that’ll be really useful. And we’re lucky; it’s another clear night.”

“Right.” Roger can’t help the twinge of disappointment at the muted reaction. “Well, first-class is this way.”

He can sense May’s worry as he leads him up the stairs and away from the sight of the promenades, all the way across the boat deck until they reach the last smoke stack. When he detours to nick a couple deck chairs, May hesitates from where he’s been trailing behind him, apparently at a loss.

Roger looks back over his shoulder. “It’s fine, just grab one,” he reassures as he carries it over to sit flush against the smoke stack, looking out over the back of the ship. May silently complies, gently placing his beside the other.

Roger reclines back in the chair, hands tucked behind his head. “Well, I think this beats a porthole.”

May lets out a breathy laugh, posture ram-rod straight. After a moment, he fumbles for the book inside his coat, leaning forwards to sit cross-legged and lay the book flat on the canvas of the chair.

“Okay, so, right by the horizon, you can see three stars all in a row, and…”

May relaxes the more he explains, shifting closer and closer towards him to connect the ink on the page to the lights above them. Roger is content to listen and offer noncommittal noises of agreement every so often, and when he finally manages to connect the dots, Roger is rewarded with a rare, beautifully earnest smile that melts all his doubts. May’s words fade into a pleasant lull as Roger watches the lift of his brows, flutter of his lashes, curve of his mouth. The slight sea breeze ruffles his curls, one stubborn lock persistently falling into his eyes as he bends forward to scan the book. Roger doesn’t know when May stops talking, only that he’s now looking skyward, completely lost to the world above him. The soft yellow of the ship lights flicker against the hollows and lines of his profile, the peaceful silence a warm syrup. He’s lovely.  
And Roger has eyes. He notices the lack of any wedding jewelry, and knows that the mention of a wife and family isn’t considered too private for casual conversation. He notices the stares and the lingering brush of hands, too long to be considered accidental. He notices that May never misses a night if he can help it, apologizing profusely if he does. He notices that time is not the determining factor of May’s departures but rather fatigue, as if to stay as long as possible. And he notices the blush provoked earlier by his simple little gift.

He sits up and turns to face the other man, shifting closer until he reaches the edge of the chair. May mirrors him, murmuring an apology and moving to get up, but Roger reaches out to stop him, resting a hand on his arm. May’s brows furrow in confusion, and he tilts his head, waiting for an explanation. Heart pounding uncontrollably, Roger swallows and leans in closer, removing his hand to then cradle the side of May’s face.

“Brian,” his voice is low, barely above a whisper. They’re separated by mere centimeters, and he hears Brian’s breath hitch before closing the space between them.

Roger presses his lips lightly against his, the touch long enough to have unmistakable intentions but no insistence. After a few seconds, Brian remains still, lips unmoving, and Roger pulls back, fear rising in his chest.

Brian stares at him with wide, shocked eyes.

“Roger, what—” the words come out thick, the ends stuck in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Roger swallows, terribly, terribly aware he read the atmosphere completely wrong. “It’s just—how could you expect me to resist any longer?”

The silence weighs awkward and heavy between them, Roger searching desperately for a way to relieve the tension but afraid to say something only worse.

Brian eventually clears his throat, and Roger’s head jerks up, only to see the other man pointedly avoiding his eyes.

“It’s late. I think we should go inside.” Roger can barely hear the words.

“Er, here,” Brian stands to leave, fumbling for the book and offering it out to Roger, still looking down at the floor.

He shakes his head, buttoning up his coat with shaking hands. “No, it’s fine. Keep it.”

Roger hears the clack of Brian’s footsteps, receding as he reaches the steps. His back is turned to the other, resolutely staring out at the lights at the stern. Blood is roaring through his ears, and the faint “Good night, Roger,” he hears is just wishful thinking.


	6. vi. first-class smoking-room; atlantic ocean; april 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> had to reupload this (now complete) chapter because i was having some issues. anyways, enjoy!

_I sometimes hold it half a sin_

_To put in words the grief I feel;_

_For words, like Nature, half reveal_

_And half conceal the Soul within._

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “In Memoriam”

 

Slamming the guitar case shut, Brian slumps against the luggage and runs his hands over his face. Any attempts to play tonight are futile: his hands are clumsy and slow on the strings; his concentration is shattered by the memory of last night’s events; his nerves are warped beyond repair. The frustration builds to a crescendo, bursting out of him with even more force than needed to suppress it. He resists the urge to scream into his hands, instead lashing out at the trunk in front of him. Belatedly, his heart jumps in panic as the luggage wobbles, though he’s thankfully spared from an avalanche. Brian lets his head fall back onto the hard leather behind him, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears threatening to slip out.

After he leaves the boat deck, praying desperately that no one sees him until he manages to reach third-class accommodations, the world is a blur, shocked into numbness. After slowly, mindlessly stripping off his shoes and coat, he crawls into bed, completely forgetting even to change or wash his face. He tosses and turns all night as the emotions finally begin to bleed into full force, trapped in a few seconds’ worth of memory that destroy any sense of normalcy he had established on the voyage.

 _Brian._ The kiss by itself was utterly unexpected, but the accompanying words only baffle him further. Roger had called him by his Christian name—a forward move, in light of how briefly he’s known the man. While part of him considers giving the benefit of the doubt that it’s simply a differing custom of the rich, Brian also reasons that if it were the case, why choose _that_ specific moment to do so? They’ve been spending quite a bit of time together, and there’s been ample opportunity to make the transition outside of a…kiss. He can’t help but suspect that the two were intentionally connected. Only family addressed him that way (mates just used his surname), except for the occasional girl he fooled around with. And Roger didn’t fit either description.

 _I’m sorry._ Then, the apology. Brian had assumed Roger would never lower himself to that, or even see the need; Brian should just be grateful he even bothers to give him the time of day. But to apologize was Roger’s first thought: he could’ve made any type of quip, or even become angry at the lack of response. After realizing Brian’s reaction, Roger felt he overstepped, and cared enough to attempt to correct his error. A remarkably considerate image in contrast to the haughty, derogatory manner in which Brian has always secretly expected to be treated.

 _How could you expect me to resist any longer?_ These are the words that bewilder him the most. They’re loaded with so many implications, Brian doesn’t even know where to start. _Resist_. Roger has clearly thought about kissing him before. Out of lust? Boredom? Curiosity? And he doesn’t seem to have any reservations about gender. Can Brian also assume Roger has thought about kissing or has actually kissed other men in the past? Is there someone else besides Brian who has caught Roger’s eye on the ship? _Any longer._ Roger had been waiting—a matter of when, not if. But what made his resolve crack last night? And what was the initial reason for his resistance? _Expect me._ Roger seems to believe Brian understands some fundamental undertone of Roger and of their time together. But Brian has never perceived a mood other than friendly rapport (anything more was a shameful overreach of his own fantasies), and he has certainly never studied Roger’s sexual inclinations. Did Roger perceive anything Brian said or did to suggest that he is attracted to men like he is to women? Why did he believe Brian would be receptive to his advances?

His heart drops at the natural line of reasoning.

_Does he know?_

He has no time to process the thought— a tentative knock rings through the room, the door slowly opening. Roger steps across the threshold, one hand on the doorknob, eyes landing directly on Brian.

“Hullo.” His tone is careful but his eyes are kind. Despite the greeting, Roger remains still, making no move to step inside.

Brian swallows against the dryness in his throat, his limbs wooden and unresponsive. “Good evening.” The first syllable comes out cracked, voice rough with disuse.

They exchange a few more words, small ripples in a glacier of silence. Roger asks polite questions; Brian answers them with feather-light delicacy.

Part of him longs to stand up and invite Roger inside, find the perfect words for laughter and warmth to melt the tension. But a much louder, insistent part of him recoils inwards, scrambling for as much distance between them as possible. His rebuff of Roger’s advances and subsequent abandonment on the deck must have hurt—and now that Brian hasn’t given him what he wants, Roger has no incentive to pretend they could ever be equal. Their conversation is a song Brian is not familiar with: the rhythm is off, the speed is irregular, there are pauses in the wrong places. But it’s not until he says the wrong word, plays the wrong note, that the effect is broken and the audience lost; Roger remembers who Brian is and that he’s wasting time. Brian is left to crash back onto the hard dirt while Roger closes the window curtains.

“I apologize to have interrupted,” Roger gestures towards the guitar case. They’ve danced enough around the elephant in the room—the reason for both of their presences tonight— and here, Brian has two options. Stay or go. Risk or retreat. Answers or questions. Courage or comfort.

“Actually, I was just leaving,” Brian slides off the top of the luggage and manages a precarious footing in-between the boxes.

Hurt flashes briefly across Roger’s features, a shadow quickly washed out by indifference. He leans back, nodding.

“Of course. Good night, then.” He leaves with a swish of fabric and a click of the handle, and then it’s just Brian, staring at the smooth blankness of the door.

Wrong note.

* * *

The conversation lulls to a pause, the chime of glassware echoing gently over the string quintet and the murmur of nearby tables. Roger takes another bite of lamb and chews thoughtfully, watching the changes of subject crisscross the floral centerpiece. He was invited to dine tonight with the representative from his fiancée’s father’s corporation as well as several other faces closely connected with his future in-laws, and there was no option but to accept.

Tonight is the same as hundreds of others for him, familiar yet no less unpleasant, like stubborn tarnish on a mirror begrudgingly accepted. Falling into the habitual, worn-out niche of one ear turned towards the table and the other away, he offers a noncommittal remark of agreement when prompted, speaking only to reaffirm what the others expect from him. Roger knows this is where he is meant to be, yet in-between strangers with shallow smiles and dull eyes, belonging is hollow of comfort. But he had tried for a taste of something else, something more, and hadn’t that gone well?

He stays out on the deck well after Brian is gone, wandering aimlessly across the ship with steps that slow and quicken, erratic as his emotions. The embarrassment, the fear, the anger rise to a boil, grapple for dominance, only to be forcefully smothered under the lid of resigned acceptance. He took too many steps too far, and Brian took several back. _Point final_. No use in endlessly agonizing over simple, immutable truth. It’s a weak balm against a searing burn, though aided liberally by the liquor cabinet in his suite.

Yet part of him still can’t reconcile Brian’s reaction to his previous behavior: while Roger may have read the atmosphere wrong, he can’t convince himself to say the same about the man. All the details add up to the same, sole conclusion: Brian fancies him. But he chose not to act on those feelings—despite that they were secluded far from prying eyes, despite that Roger had made his feelings more than obvious, and despite the seeming lack of anyone waiting for Brian on either side of the pond. Roger knows that he’s by no means a poor kisser, with plenty of experience (and praise) in that department, and his clothes and person were clean. Perhaps Brian had never kissed a man before, and he simply wasn’t prepared. Roger should have moved slower, then, maybe asked permission beforehand so as not to overwhelm Brian. A quiet voice in the back of his mind wonders whether it could have made a difference.

He comes back to his storage room the following evening. Ostensibly, he is there to return the guitar to its original location: any attempts on his part to play the instrument would be indelibly stained with excruciating memory. Roger assumes that Brian will never visit again— last night had ruined the tenuous rapport they managed to build—though a small part of him still vainly clutches onto a shred of hope. As he opens the door, his heart flips over in his chest to see Brian inside, and briefly, he thinks there might still be a chance to explain, to salvage, to mend. But Brian is stiff with discomfort uncannily similar to when they first met. He holds him at arm’s length; Roger might as well be talking to a stranger.

The disappointment and incongruity spark another burst of anger, loud and raging before he furiously wrangles it into perspective again. He tugs at the collar of his tuxedo, stiff as the linen tablecloth, and flashes a winning smile before answering the question poised to him with an anecdote applauded with roaring laughter.

Brian’s rationale is a mystery and will remain so—Brian clearly has no interest in ever seeing him again, and Roger will happily fulfill that wish. He was never meant to even know of Brian on this voyage, and this little fling is, at best, a ridiculous distraction from his real purpose on the ship _._ To dwell for so long on a passing fancy that only wasted his valuable time is absurd. Why would steerage ever be of concern to him, anyways?

The days stretch longer than late-afternoon shadows across the deck. _Titanic_ begins to feel not unlike his home in London, time an endless waltz of conversations while the sun rises and sets behind the windows. The reality of his transition into the world of commerce is suddenly much nearer, the clear and solid lines of his future both a mold and a prison. It’s easy, familiar, mindless, to follow the path already laid out for him and never blink twice. Yet two decades of preparation have still failed to ignore the loneliness that makes him feel as hollow as champagne bubbles.

His time with Brian, although brief, only inflamed that need: unearthing a part of him that now relentlessly, desperately demands, considers it unimaginable to live how he did before. He lets his pursuit of attention absorb him: each minute in public is a new opportunity to draw eyes and ears, magnetize the attention of anyone willing to give it. He relishes the appreciative glances from behind handheld fans and underneath hat brims, the thrilling, razor-sharp risk between playful and provocative. He’s active to the point of competition amongst circles of business associates, never satisfied until the deal is in his favor. The momentary attention of strangers soothes the weight on his chest, but it’s a passing brush of relief that leaves the ache worse than before.

The only person who seems to help is Freddie, the silver lining to lighten Roger’s black cloud. With the tailor, there’s always a rush of instant connection: the pure oxygen of authenticity that reveals everyone else as flat caricatures. Freddie effortlessly draws him out of the need to pretend and embellish, parachuting down from the lofty heights of ambition to two blokes laughing over a pint. His smile is genuine and the conversation effortless, bouncing to and from every subject imaginable—well, except one. While Roger is aware Freddie would have no words of judgement, admitting what happened only makes it so much harder to forget.

He jumps at any chance to spend time with Freddie: whenever he’s available, Roger makes himself the same, spending hours together in the first-class lounge only ended by Freddie’s repeated insistence for rest for the morning or a vague apology for a suddenly remembered engagement. Yesterday Freddie was unsure if he would have time tonight, but Roger comes anyways. He’s later than usual, as dinner had run unexpectedly long, but it’s still a reasonable hour. As he turns the corner from the elevators towards the entrance of the lounge, he catches sight of Freddie and another man emerging from the doorway, walking closely side-by-side. Freddie’s face is turned away from Roger and towards the man, who blushes and looks down before he sees out of the corner of his eye Roger walking towards them, and freezes.

As if prompted by the man’s reaction, Freddie pivots to see Roger, breaking out into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Roger, dear! Here I was thinking you’d never escape their clutches.”

Roger puts a hand over his heart and leans back on his heels in exaggerated exhaustion. “I very nearly didn’t. I’m sure you’ve been mourning my absence all night.”

“Positively weeping, dear.”

Roger inclines his head towards the stranger behind Freddie, who appears rather confused and uncomfortable. “I see you’ve brought a guest?”

“Ah, yes.” Freddie turns to gesture towards the man, no longer blocking the majority of him from Roger’s view. “Roger Taylor, this is Mr. John Deacon.”

Deacon steps forward for a quick shake of hands, and they exchange the usual pleasantries; Roger is only half-engaged, the other part of him assessing Freddie’s new companion.

He’s polite, with a Northern accent, but seems incredibly reserved: slouching and speaking quietly. Clean-shaven, hair closely cropped, and though his suit (a drab neutral of cheap cotton) is clean and well-kept, his fingers and palms of his hands are rough and calloused—likely an industrial worker of some kind. Deacon is clearly third-class, and Roger wonders why Freddie, who is currently fidgeting and not-so-discreetly checking the time, would take an interest in or even happen to encounter the man.

Roger invites both of them inside for drinks, because shared time with Freddie is better than no time, but to his surprise, the tailor announces the two are planning to leave, having already drank and smoked their heart’s content. Even if Freddie’s dinner ended at the usual time, less than an hour has passed between then and now. And his smile is tight and his cheerfulness strangely forced, which only confuses Roger further: he and Freddie normally spend hours together without any trouble, and Freddie doesn’t appear exhausted or ill.

Then he realizes. Fighting down an embarrassed blush, he bows out from the conversation with a courteous good-night to both, ducking inside the lounge and slumping into a chair by a table in the corner of the room. Lit cigarette in one hand and whiskey in the other, he downs his first drink a bit too aggressively, his head swimming with the sudden onslaught. Rejection burns a fire sharp as the whiskey’s aftertaste underneath his heart, shoulders tense and grip tightening around the glass. The explanation for Freddie’s behavior throughout the voyage falls into place like dominoes: all his vague, hurried excuses and sudden, baffling disinterest in their conversations. The bottom of the glass collides with the table as betrayal squeezes him with a vice grip. How dare Freddie drop him like common trash just for a cheap fuck? Deacon was nothing, is nothing, just someone to spend an hour with and forget about the next, and for Freddie to prioritize him over Roger—like he did with all those other men—is offensive and degrading. Roger was clearly, hilariously, wrong to assume anyone on this voyage could possibly have his best interests in mind, could possibly want to spend time with him for the sake of companionship and not personal gain, and the loneliness drops like a stone onto his chest. He goddamn might as well never left London, as he’s made a complete and utter fool of himself on _Titanic_. Roger’s only a few drinks further, drowning in his own bitterness slashed with anger, when an apologetic bartender comes over to inform him that the lounge is closing early this evening for a ship’s officers’ event.

He stands and stubs his cigarette into the ash tray with more force than necessary, stalking out with no idea where to go; he’ll worry about that later. Roger pauses just past the doorway, blinking and swaying slightly on his feet. He glances down both sides of the hallway to confirm that the elevators are to the left, but catches sight of a very familiar face walking his way from the right.

He snaps his head back, sucking in a breath through his teeth before setting his jaw. Fucking fantastic. Brian is the last person he wants to deal with right now, and he certainly doesn’t want the man to see him like this.

Roger pivots to walk towards the elevators, eyes pointedly trained on the corridor directly in front of him, but not before Brian has anything to say about it.

“Mr. Taylor.” His voice is firm but conversational, and Roger reluctantly swings around, cocking his head and failing to keep the smirk off his lips. Brian has his hands in his pockets but chin held high, expression politely open.

“Mr. May. Sooo lovely to see you.”

Brian’s brows furrow slightly together, but his demeanor doesn’t change. He clears his throat before asking, “May we speak, privately, for a moment?”

This conversation is sobering up Roger far too quickly for his liking. He dramatically extends one arm, gesturing towards Brian. “Lead the way.”

Brian nods, glancing worriedly at Roger again before turning back towards the storage rooms, stopping at number thirty-nine. Roger is a few paces behind him, heart hammering in his chest. He follows him past the threshold, the click of the door shutting a cannon blast in the silence, and they stand awkwardly for a moment, unsure, before Brian takes a seat and invites him to do the same.

Thick silence stretches between them before Brian sighs and looks up at Roger, biting his lip.

“I’m sorry.”

Roger raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, which seems to be enough encouragement for Brian to continue.

“That night, up on the deck. It was rude of me to leave you like that, and then again to refuse to confront it the next day. That’s not—it wasn’t very becoming of me, or fair to you. And so I owe you an explanation.”

Roger huffs, looking away and shaking his head a little, tired impatience swelling in his chest and fingers itching for a cigarette. “Listen, it’s fine. There’s no need, really, I—”

“No, there is. Roger.” Roger’s eyes snap back up to Brian’s, nervous but determined. He swallows and dips his head, silently asking Brian to continue.

“I didn’t know how to react. I was overwhelmed. And I should’ve talked to you and worked things out instead of running away. So please, forgive me for such poor treatment of a friend.”

Roger’s pounding heart skids to an unsteady stop at Brian’s last word, the balloon of irritation, fear, and embarrassment inside his chest ruthlessly popped. The small hope fluttering around his ribcage is plunged into freezing silence.

“The, uh, kiss—I’m not sure I’m, just, I don’t want it to change things between us? Because I do enjoy spending time with you and I don’t want to lose our friendship.” Brian ducks his head.

“I’ve missed you, Roger.” He adds quietly.

For a long moment, Roger can’t think of anything to say. He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again, swallowing against the disappointment and confusion and forcing himself not to ask questions. He clears his throat, and finds that meeting Brian’s eyes is nearly impossible.

“Of course. I understand. And I want to apologize as well. It was…inappropriate of me, and it won’t happen again.” The words taste like ash.

“Don’t worry about it, really.” Brian flushes. “But I’m glad we’re in agreement.” He seems hesitant with these last words, the end of the sentence curving up into a question to mirror the concern on his face.

“Me too. Well, good chat.” Roger rubs his temples, a ferocious headache beginning to pound against his skull, throat tight with emotion. He stands, buttons his suit jacket and smooths down the front of it, runs a hand through his hair. All the jagged and burning pieces of himself are doused in nonchalance, and by the time he looks up, he can almost convince himself that in the space between them, there is no distance, no secrets, no change. Brian’s eyes are full ofuncertainty, and Roger smiles, chases the clouds of doubt away, though every part of him is screaming to _say something._

“Good night, Brian.”

“Good night, Roger.”

Out of all the possible versions of this conversation, Roger thinks this one might be the worst.


	7. vii. roger's storage room; atlantic ocean; april 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a longer chapter than normal as tensions come to a head. but i think you'll like the outcome.

_If thou must love me, let it be for nought_

_Except for love's sake only._

Sonnet 14, Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

“Alright, so maybe that part’s a bit long,” Brian admits, plucking idly at the guitar strings. Roger bursts into peals of laughter, tongue tucked behind his front teeth and lips split in a wide grin.

“Just a bit?”

Brian flushes even further, unable to keep himself from laughing as well. Though for all his teasing, Roger had patiently listened to the entire bridge Brian was composing, brows furrowed in thoughtful concentration and foot tapping a steady beat to the melody. As their laughter fades, Roger is quick to supply his genuine opinion and suggestions, with no absence of praise. His expression while he speaks is so earnest and passionate that Brian barely manages to suppress a smile, a pleasant, painful ache in his heart.

They’ve reached an equilibrium over the past week or so, tentatively finding the confidence to ease back into a familiarity with each other—and with an unspoken agreement to never mention the kiss again. Brian won’t allow himself to admit that spending time with Roger is the part of the day he looks forward to the most, the music now more of a happy afterthought.

The days after he and Roger part ways in the storage room are indisputably the most difficult of the voyage thus far: the world shrinking back inside a clockwork cage of meals, rest, and killing time, leaving distorted, empty gaps around the edges of its former shape. His cabin-mates grate against his every nerve, and with Deacon—the only bright spot of third-class—mysteriously absent several nights, Brian nearly bursts apart at the seams.

Lying in his bunk and staring at the blank darkness, dreams elude him, replaced by vivid, gut-wrenching memory. He knows he made the wrong choice as soon as the words leave his mouth: the shutters are instantly closed, tucking away the rare, quiet vulnerability Roger offered him. He’s sure any attempt to make amends would hit a hard, blank wall, and can only watch as the door is closed between them. Brian stands there for a brief eternity, mercilessly torn between relief and burning shame, his throat choked up with guilt.

Regret and anxiety from refusing Roger’s olive branch wear him down like waves crashing against rock. Though he dreads a confrontation, Brian still finds himself wandering down the storage room corridor every night, propelled by a carefully ignored hope. Someone catches him staring off into space more than a few times in public, silently indulging himself in preparing the words he would say if they ever do chance upon each other again. He convinces himself that a clean break will unravel the tangle of his conflicting thoughts: by denying any possibility of something more, he’ll be left with only one option.

But now, being with Roger again—even if in a strictly platonic context—only aggravates the tension. With him, Brian’s life has a lighter, freer, almost enjoyable taste that was unfathomable before; and without him, the weight of Brian’s reality presses impossibly heavier, leaving him gasping for air. He’s magnetized by Roger’s presence, so hopelessly caught up that the world might as well be the walls around them. He unknowingly sits a little closer, laughs a little louder, plays a little better, and then the realization of his actions hits him, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from immediately reseating himself across the room. Sometimes the conflict engrosses him so completely that it spills over into his expression and his music, and when Roger asks, he waves them away as a bad night’s sleep or overworked fingers. Throughout the day, Brian catches himself wondering how Roger is, what he’s doing—if he’s even still thinking about Brian.

Because this is Mr. Roger Meddows Taylor, the golden heir to a million-dollar empire. Despite Roger’s assurances that he, too, is content with their friendship, Brian can’t help but wonder: _For how long?_ He is hesitant to start something that inevitably can never be followed through, and the terror that one day he’s going to walk up to the storage room door and find it permanently locked suffocates him, clings like a shadow. When will Brian inevitably fail to be enough to entertain Roger? He agreed to Brian’s request to stay friendly, and stray no further, but Roger is notoriously impatient, and his response and quick departure that night were cold and distant. There was none of the usual fiery passion, humor to dispel the awkwardness, the quintessential Roger.

No _I missed you too._

Brian tries to chalk up the absence to an overwhelmed mind, but the fear lies quietly buried underneath all his other concerns and unanswered questions, ready to rear its head at the drop of a hat.

Since then, Roger has been his usual self: cheerfully witty; maddeningly frustrating; addictively charming. But Brian catches flashes, odd moments when Roger thinks he isn’t looking: hairline cracks in an almost flawless facade. He has no idea what to make of them, so he turns a blind eye, brushing aside the unsettled feeling and the rain to the seeds of doubt and worry growing in his chest.

Misfortune seems to come in spades in Brian’s experience, and his nerves, already frayed from the uncertainty with Roger, are taxed even further by a flood of other difficulties. As another storm passes through the ship’s course, a few of his cabin-mates become seasick; another wakes up one morning with a sore throat that quickly descends into a full-blown illness, the loud coughs all night shattering Brian’s ability to sleep. In such a small, high occupancy cabin, it’s only a matter of time before he is sick as well, the likelihood heightened further by his perpetual exhaustion. Between spending half the night with Roger and the rest sleepless from coughs or anxious thoughts, he can barely drag himself out of bed each morning, limbs leaden and head throbbing.

Whenever someone in Brian’s family came down with an illness, his mother, as a midwife, insisted that he and his siblings wash more frequently to prevent any further spread of the sickness. Although retrieving the extra water was a hassle, the usual weekly bath simply wouldn’t do. As her directions generally seemed successful, Brian always made the habit to follow them. But on _Titanic_ , he’s soon informed that there is only one bathtub for the hundreds of male third-class passengers, located several floors above him to boot. He doubts the crew cleans it often, and it can take hours before he finally reaches the front of the queue. And though Brian is there ostensibly to avoid illness, he can’t manage to quell his self-consciousness when he looks down and picks at the grit underneath his fingernails, remembers the smell of clean linen and expensive cologne.

Stress and weariness lie a heavy, constant weight across his shoulders, head bobbing during his conversations with Roger and fingers unable to muster the strength to hold the proper position. Before, when these nights were occasional, Roger would graciously circumvent his fatigue, but now he’s asking questions. Of course, Brian can’t—won’t—divulge the truth, so he settles for noncommittal excuses and ignoring the concerned frown he receives in response. Roger doesn’t ask after his wellbeing often, always phrased differently, but all his remarks say the same thing, come from the same place, and each time Brian tosses out yet another half-hearted answer, shame and longing squeeze his chest equally tighter. In the back of his mind, he knows that a man as intelligent as Roger can only be redirected for so long, but as he can’t think of another option to sidestep a confrontation, he pushes the thought back into the recesses.

Brian mentions once offhandedly that he doesn’t care for _Titanic_ ’s selection of drinks: the water for the tea tastes strange and the coffee is weak and overwhelmingly bitter, leaving him with little energy and perpetual disappointment. It’s a reality he’s long since accepted—especially considering the likely worse conditions he’ll face in America—and after the first sip in the morning, the thought flits from his mind. When Roger asks how he takes said drinks, presumably to keep the conversation from an awkward death, Brian absent-mindedly rattles off his preferences, attention already refocused on the guitar.

When Roger returns the next night with two steaming coffees in hand, one made exactly as previously described, Brian is pleasantly surprised yet nonetheless confused. But the drink is deliciously smooth and rich, served in delicate, ornamented china, and Brian barely manages to wait until the coffee cools and prevent himself from burning his tongue. Despite the proper convention of stoicism, a few drops of elation spill out into his expression. Roger’s delighted response makes him thankful for the heat of the drink to mask his blush.

Brian doesn’t see the connection until he’s lying in his bunk later that night, and the realization sends electricity arcing down his nerves. Roger listened to his words, down to the smallest details, and willingly went out of his way to bring the coffee to Brian as soon as he was able. The thought that someone—and especially someone like Roger—paid that much attention to him, cared enough to try to soothe his disappointment and fatigue, sends soft rays of warmth curling through him.

But then he realizes how incredibly foolish his complaints are in the eyes of Roger, whose simplest breakfast would be a holiday feast to Brian. The warmth ignites into burning shame, flames licking the inside of his chest. He should have kept his mouth shut; he sounded pathetic. Any respect he’s earned in Roger’s mind has vanished if he’s whining about life in third-class—and about the goddamn coffee, of all petty things. His best efforts to build a more respectable image of himself, prove that he doesn’t depend on pennies given out of Christian duty, have crumbled, a house of cards blown over by a single, questioning breath.Roger’s conception of him—lazy, irresponsible, unrefined, desperate, _incompatible_ —is only confirmed, and he likely pities Brian even more than he did before. And thus he’s only isolated himself from Roger further: why would he want to endure the embarrassment of Brian bemoaning trivial, childish inconveniences that have no relevance to him? He’ll only tire of Brian faster, and the coffee was probably a discreet way to get Brian to shut up while also commend himself for his charity to the poor.

Roger brings him coffee again the next time they see other, and Brian takes only a few polite sips before gathering his resolve to permanently set the cup down and turn his attention elsewhere. He determinedly ignores the drink for the rest of the night, keeps his gaze away from the one cradled in Roger’s palms. He can’t help the twinge of disappointment from glancing at the mostly full cup as he leaves, the steam dissipated and the liquid lukewarm. Roger brings him another the night after, and Brian leaves this one untouched, concentration upended the entire time by a war between anxiety from rejecting Roger’s hospitality and vicious pride in his own self-sufficiency. When Roger asks if there is something wrong with the coffee, Brian explains that it hasn’t agreed with him to drink so late in the evening.

When Roger returns the next night, a few minutes late and balancing a full tea service in his arms, complete with sandwiches and pastries and things Brian doesn’t even know the name for, he’s baffled, both irritated and amused. Roger is quick to apologize for his tardiness: _I sent for only sandwiches without meat ages ago, and I can’t believe it took them this bloody long._ Despite the extravagance of the gesture, Roger is almost nervous, fiddling with the china and a unusually shy tone to his voice. Still processing the sight of the gleaming sterling silver service before him, Roger’s words leave Brian reeling, wordlessly accepting the cup offered to him. He indulges in a few bites as well, for the sake of propriety and Roger’s obvious effort, but it’s hardly a sacrifice: the food is divine and the tea a warm, palpable comfort. At Roger’s almost hesitant question, Brian is quick to reassure that _It’s wonderful, thank you,_ and in a moment of thoughtlessness, adds _The best I’ve had in ages, really._ Roger lights up, his uncharacteristically subdued manner instantly transforming into delighted relief, and starts jabbering away as if nothing had ever happened. Brian ducks his head, suddenly feeling like he was interrupted half-way through a somersault—falling and falling and falling, dazedly watching the sky above and unprepared for the ground below.

* * *

It can’t continue, and Brian knows this. Every day, he’s walking further down a path with no possible good ending, eyes closed and indulging blissful ignorance one step at a time until the next finally falters, tangled in consequences. But the tea service Roger brings to the storage room each night is far superior to the best meals he’s ever had—made even more enticing by the thrill of luxury and the knowledge of its inevitable disappearance—and part of him selfishly resists giving up this sliver of attention, of prosperity. And accepting Roger’s hospitality coaxes a radiance out of the man bafflingly disproportionate to the simplicity of the gesture. The edges of his sharp wit soften into mischievous playfulness; his last remnants of hesitancy melt into unblushing candor; his once unreadable, guarded expression shines with cheerful self-assurance. Roger makes Brian’s head spin, pushes all his buttons, steals his breath away.

But Brian’s question remains: what does Roger want? Because out all of the possible motives he can infer, though shameful and unappealing as they are, his worst thought is that there isn’t one. Roger is acting solely out of the desires of his heart, freely and purely gifted. Guilt from his utter inability to even begin to reciprocate settles like a stone in Brian’s gut. He forces away the thought that sooner or later, and probably sooner, Roger will no longer be able to avoid the undeniable truth that Brian has desperately, hopelessly postponed.

The uncertainty claws at him day and night, shredding his nerves to ribbons and leaving his concentration in shards of broken glass. But the thought of asking Roger to clarify his intentions, of disrupting the delicate harmony they’ve reached—so easily broken before—sends cold fear racing down his spine. And so Brian can’t force himself to a resolution, biting again and again from an irresistible fruit while guilt and anger brew a slow, lethal poison inside him. And maybe it’s his narcissism as the center of Roger’s attention, the warm satisfaction of a full stomach, or what he’s already known all along, but Brian inches closer and closer towards Roger: an appreciative stare sloppily hidden, a hand on the shoulder as they say goodnight, an unabashed smile so rarely, carefully gifted. He sways back and forth on razor thin indecision: a harrowing confrontation with the answers he craves, or the safety of inaction with an unbearable unknown.

Brian hides from a future approaching as steadily as the morning sun, burying himself deep into pitch black distraction. The anxiety suffocates him, but as long as he can take just one more breath, it’s a problem for another moment, not this one. Caught up in the bluster of desperation, he fails to step back, clear his head, see the oncoming drop silently gaping underneath his outstretched foot.

Rushing down the storage room corridor, he’s abysmally late. The queue for the bath was obscene; he’s starving because he missed dinner to wash instead; his face feels unusually warm and there’s a scratch building at the back of his throat—all collectively leaving him in a piss-poor mood. He barely remembers to take a moment to collect himself before entering the room, aware the scowl hasn’t been wiped off his face and his posture has all the relaxation of cold steel.

He bustles in and immediately scoops up the guitar, apologizing with all the force and direction of a strong wind off the deck.

“Brian, hold on, slow down,” Roger cuts him off, expression creased in a surprised frown. He half-rises from his seat and leans toward Brian before he pauses, sinks back down and redirects his outstretched hands to the tea pot. “Don’t worry about it. Tea’s still warm, if you want some.”

Brian distractedly answers him, reaching for the cup. The silky warmth soothes his throat, but his body language must still radiate tension, as the lines between Roger’s brows haven’t disappeared. He feels a twinge of guilt for such a brusque entrance, the silence settling thick and heavy in the air.

Roger soon picks up the conversation from its abrupt beginning. Brian relaxes into the familiar rhythm, shelters himself inside the comforting lull of Roger’s voice. He doesn’t last an hour before the exhaustion settles like lead in his bones, head bobbing and vision fading in and out of blurriness.

Distantly, he hears Roger’s voice, slowly breaking through to him but distorted, as if Brian’s head is underwater. Roger’s face appears much closer now, lips moving but the sound delayed, and a hand reaches out to gently rest against his forehead.

“You alright, Brian? You’re very pale.”

Brian closes his eyes and leans into the touch for a moment before coming to his senses, weakly batting Roger’s hand away.

“Don’t, you’ll catch it like the rest of us,” he mumbles irritably.

Roger removes his hand but doesn’t draw back, still right in front of Brian. His mind belatedly registers that they haven’t been this close since the kiss, but he can’t find the willpower to force himself to more create space between them.

“Who?” Roger’s voice is soft, caressing.

“‘M cabin-mates, they’re all sick. ‘Spose I’ve ended up same as them.” This conversation is requiring far too much thought for Brian’s throbbing head.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Brian laughs bitterly, surprised at his own outburst. “If you’ve got a bathtub to spare, that’d be nice,” he spits out.

“What?” Roger’s confusion is harsh to his ears.

Horrified, Brian winces and rambles a vague excuse directed at the floor before he’s interrupted.

“What, is there only one for all you lot, then?” Roger tries for humor but the quip falls flat, prompting a too-long pause before Brian offers a weak, awkward laugh, hurriedly denying it and attempting to change the subject.

But Roger seems determined to chase his dodged questions.

“Is there really only one?” His tone is even gentler this time, and Brian ducks his head to let his curls fall in front of him like a curtain, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Jesus, Brian, why didn’t you say something?” Roger’s tone has morphed into outrage, voice so loud Brian feels like his head is going to split.

“God, that’s disgusting, I can’t even imagine. You have to use one of the ones in my suite, that’s ridiculous—”

“No, I don’t _have_ to do anything, thank you,” Brian surges to his feet, misery and frustration and insecurity towering into a crescendo, finally un-bottled and roaring through him.

“I am perfectly aware that it is, in fact, disgusting, like everything else about third-class. But it’s all we’ve bloody got, and thank God we’ve at least got _something_. Because as if it’s not already painfully obvious, I’m poor, Roger. I can barely make ends meet every week, and I’m on _Titanic_ because of it. I’m lazy, irresponsible, uncivilized, embarrassing, and completely, utterly, unlike you. And I certainly don’t need you to point that out any further.” The words tumbling out of his mouth are scathing even to his own ears, but the wave is already crashing down and Brian is powerless but to let it run its course.

“‘Cause I won’t be your charity case, someone to gawk at and throw a bit of food or money to help you feel better about yourself, compare how pathetic the poor are, thank God that you’re nothing like me. I’m not your plaything, something to entertain yourself with because you’re bored of all the people you know. I won’t stand here and let you kiss me out of the blue when you could’ve just asked for that when we first met. And you say we’re fine, but then suddenly there’s coffee and tea and food and now your private bloody loo, and I don’t know what to think except that it’s all just to charm yourself back into good grace so you can finally finish what you tried to start, and then you’ll leave me and move onto whoever else catches your eye the next moment. Or maybe none of that’s what’s going through your head, because I don’t really fucking know, Roger, and I can’t, just can’t, keep playing these guessing games. So tell me what you want, what you’ve always wanted, because it’s certainly not me.”

His chest is heaving by the time he’s finished, his sharp breaths the only sound in the room. In a split second, the tide of anger washes away as he realizes what he’s done, bringing a hand up to hand cover his mouth, eyes wide. Tears burn against the back of his eyelids, shame squeezing his throat shut.

Roger stares at him, dumbfounded. For once, he’s completely speechless.

The silence stretches interminably, thundering loud in his ears. Brian is frozen, heart dropped somewhere in his stomach. The few feet between them seems impassable, Brian and Roger on opposite sides of an invisible barrier. Finally, Roger draws a shaky breath, unclenching his fists balled at his sides.

“That’s not true,” he croaks out. “I would never—I don’t think those things about you, Brian. Never. You have to believe me.”

He looks up to meet Brian’s gaze, expression tight and eyes blazing.

“And how dare you think so little of me? Of yourself? Is it truly so hard to believe that it doesn’t fucking matter to me how much money you have, that what matters is _you_? I want to spend time with you because I enjoy it, because I like you for who you are, not to pass the time or to feel better about myself. And I would never think of you as a charity case. I want you to be happy, to be well; that’s why I brought the coffee and the tea and the food. You looked miserable, and it was the only thing I could think of that wouldn’t seem too forward. Because I—”

Roger closes his mouth abruptly and turns his head, jaw working before he scoffs.

“Because you what, Roger? What is this between us?” Brian gestures wildly to the space in between them. “I don’t understand your intentions. What is it that—”

“I can’t do it.” Roger’s gaze pierces through him, the words dying in his throat. “Even before the kiss, I’ve been—you’ve been something more to me. God knows it’s never been about getting you into bed; if I were looking for that, I certainly wouldn’t have kept coming here. And I thought you felt the same way, but you didn’t, and then you left, only to reappear and ask to forget about the whole thing. And I just can’t.”

He laughs bitterly, raking a hand through his hair.

“I can’t keep pretending that I can give you what you want. Because you’re not just a friend to me, haven’t been for ages, and I can’t keep believing if I tell myself enough that I don’t feel that way about you, it’ll eventually be true.”

His voice softens, sounding almost defeated.

“I care about you, Brian. I want _you._ Though I thought I made it bloody obvious enough.”

Brian swallows, heart hammering in his chest. He’s wavering on a paper-thin line, a breath away from tipping over. He opens his mouth to respond, but Roger beats him to it.

“And what I don’t understand is why you do one thing and then say another. I’m not blind, you know. But I can never understand what you want. You act like you feel the same one day and then push me away the next, and I’m tired of _your_ little games. You say you don’t understand? Neither do I!”

Brian is momentarily taken aback, casting about desperately for the quickest way out of this conversation.

“I didn’t realize all that, Roger, honestly. It’s a lot, what you’ve said, and I think that I just need some space to think about it—”

“No.” Roger takes a step towards him, held head high and eyes firm. They’re mere centimeters apart, now, and Brian’s breath hitches.

“I don’t think you do. You already know what you want, don’t you? And now you’re just trying to avoid telling me. If we walk away now, things will only get even more confused than they already are.”

Brian drops his gaze from Roger’s, tilting his head down and away. He knows Roger is right, but to admit his thoughts out loud, to face Roger’s judgement? He isn’t ready, isn’t brave enough.

Roger gently cradles Brian’s chin with one hand, lifts his face to meet Roger's eyes. He’s impossibly close, can surely hear the thunder of Brian’s heartbeat.

“Why can’t you let go?”

Roger’s eyes are wide and blue as summer sky, completely bare to Brian. He looks and looks and can find none of what he’s always expected to find: nothing but concern, earnestness, tenderness.

He isn’t ready. Would he ever be?

Brian closes his eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never be enough for you, you know. I don’t understand how you haven’t realized that. I couldn’t dream of giving you what you could. I’m no one, I have nothing. You should be with someone who can offer you everything you deserve. And that’s not me.”

Roger is silent for a moment, swiping his thumb tenderly across Brian’s cheekbone.

“The best thing you could ever give me is just yourself, Brian.”

He opens his eyes, and Roger’s expression steals the air from his lungs. He stares for a long moment, mesmerized, before bringing a shaking hand up to curve gently at the base of Roger’s neck, threading his fingers through the short hairs at his nape. He closes the sliver of distance between them, barely pressing his lips against Roger’s. Briefly, Roger remains still, but before Brian can reconsider his decision, Roger is shifting his head for a better angle, their noses brushing against each other.

They kiss slowly, chastely, drawn-out, content to be wrapped in each others’ presence. Molten, honeyed relief spreads through Brian as he curls his other hand in Roger’s shirt. All the fears and worries of the past few weeks slide off his shoulders, unaware of the magnitude of their weight until now.

The guitar lies abandoned on a suitcase to the side, long forgotten, as Brian hums contentedly and presses even further into Roger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, there really was only one bathtub for over three-hundred third class men.

**Author's Note:**

> come scream with me into the void about maylor in edwardian fashion on my tumblr @borhap


End file.
